


Dyscrasia

by MDJensen



Series: The Weight of Your Coffin: the series [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anxiety, Assassination attempts, Birthday Parties, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hugging, Humorism, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Sequel, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: Vomit, d'Artagnan and Porthos cry a lot, tw: insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis’ death was faked, but the grief that his friends felt was not. Now he’s back, and the boys have to cope with the emotional fallout. One in particular copes a little less well.</p><p>Sequel to <i>The Weight of Your Coffin</i>. I suggest you read that first, but it’s summarized inside if you’d prefer to take a shortcut :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give these trigger warnings now, because even though they won’t feature in every chapter they will feature heavily, and I don’t want anyone getting invested in a story and not being able to finish it. Insomnia will be a main point in this story, written descriptively by an author who personally suffers with it (ugh). Anxiety will also be a theme, for multiple characters. Additionally, one character will use an emetic and subsequently vomit; this will be in the context of a period typical medical treatment but will nevertheless be self-inducted vomiting, so I worry that this in and of itself could be a trigger.
> 
> A good deal of this story is based on the notion of humorism, the pre-modern medicine understanding of the body which has been known to this fandom since day one. I am by no means an expert but I have tried my best to accurately represent humorism as it would have existed in the 17th century. If any of you more historically inclined than I am see any flaws, please feel free to point them out. _Dyscrasia_ itself refers to an imbalance in the humors, which causes illness.
> 
>  _The Weight of Your Coffin_ summary:  
>  After learning of Adele’s death, Aramis realizes that the late cardinal’s threat is still very real. Terrified of the consequences to his friends should the secret of the dauphin come to light, he begs Treville to help him fake his death, and flees Paris. Meanwhile, of course, his friends are privy to none of this, and spend five weeks believing Aramis to truly be dead. Porthos and d’Artagnan see each other through; Athos spends the first few weeks alone, but eventually comes around. The three of them are just beginning to heal when Treville, fed up with the charade, tricks Aramis into returning. The homecoming is not a joyous one. Rather his friends are furious with him, Porthos and d’Artagnan in particular. Nevertheless, they set off on a few week’s leave to visit Aramis’ family, and Lupiac. On the way there’s a series of talks, cries, and fights, until, one-by-one, Aramis’ three friends begin to come to terms with his actions.

“Back to the real world,” d’Artagnan sighed, as the outskirts of Paris rose up in the distance. He glanced over to gauge Aramis’ reaction. There was a wistfulness to his friend’s expression-- only natural, d’Artagnan supposed, for a man who’d just farewelled his family-- but there was a smile there too. They’d all needed the past few weeks, badly.

Visting the d’Herblay distillery, d’Artagnan thought, was certain to be one of his favorite memories from this point on. For one thing, Aramis’ family was _big_. It was big and loud and loving, and his brother and sisters had spent the entire first night passing their René from one embrace to the next, kissing him, praying over him, stuffing him full of food and brandy. It warmed d’Artagnan deeply. It might also have saddened him, had they not shown nearly the same affection to Athos, Porthos, and-- within less than a day of their arrival-- d’Artagnan himself. His own family had been tiny. For most of the years he could remember it had been only him and his father, and even now that he’d forged a brotherhood in the musketeers, it was still only a group of four. It was more than enough, of course. But there was something impossibly heartening about the massive jumble that composed the d’Herblays: over a score, once all the children were included, and a couple of dogs to boot, so that even the decently large main house was filled to the brim with the wonderful bustle of life.

D’Artagnan had given up fairly early on at his attempt to chart it all out. Who was a blood sibling and who just by marriage; which parent belonged to which child and which children to each other; who lived on the land here and who had hurried up from a few leagues down the road as soon as the message had been delivered-- he just couldn’t keep it all straight. What he did come to understand was that it just didn’t matter. Everyone there was family, and d’Artagnan had felt the last of his resentment towards Aramis slip away as he saw just how much the man had needed this, had needed to sink into this great ocean of affection, had needed the full arsenal of loved ones to finally begin to heal his lingering loneliness.

Aramis had been lonelier than any of them, after all. At first it had seemed as though he’d always resent Aramis for his actions, even though he’d begun to accept them-- but he wouldn’t. He _couldn’t_. Aramis had been hurt just as badly.

The second night at the distillery he’d slumped to the ground at his oldest sister’s feet and spilled for her, for everyone, the story of the past two months. _He hecho algo terrible_ , he’d murmured; _I’ve done something terrible_. Then the words, and the tears, began to pour so quickly that d’Artagnan’s half-grasp of Spanish failed him, and he sat quietly and listened not to what Aramis was saying but to how he was saying it, to the guilt and the regret and the hunger for forgiveness.

When he’d finished, there had been silence.

Then Sofia had hugged Aramis, and Gustave had hugged Athos, and two or three nieces at once had hugged Porthos, and someone-- Margot, maybe?-- had even hugged d’Artagnan. A collectively held breath was released then.

After that the visit had been basically a holiday. Aramis had passed the hours chatting endlessly with his sisters, while Porthos played with the children and Athos and Gustave wandered the grounds and discussed, in sophisticated chemical terms, the finer points of alcohol distillation.

And d’Artagnan, of course, set to work.

A distillery was not a farm, but there were plenty of similarities: weeds around the plum trees that needed to be seen to, a small flock of chickens and a cow whose eggs and milk needed to be collected. And gardens-- _gardens_. At some point on the third day, Athos and Gustave had discovered him ensconced in one of these; d’Artagnan’s host had reminded him, quite kindly, that he was a guest and not a hired hand.

 _He’s a Gascon and a farmer’s son_ , Athos had explained. And d’Artagnan had smiled sheepishly, and Gustave had shrugged and left him to it. And so he’d passed the next days happily, and ended them covered in earth and sore in places he’d forgotten how to be sore in.

“Not sure the pup wanted t’come back,” Porthos chuckled, shaking d’Artagnan from his thoughts. “Hell, ‘m not sure I did.” D’Artagnan glanced over at his friend, who smiled in understanding.

They’d pressed their stay an extra day and left a scant four days for the return journey, all of them, it seemed, wanting to bask in the countryside as long as they could. But in the end, d’Artagnan did want to be home as well. They’d taken nearly three full weeks to talk and laugh-- and fight, and cry-- and remember how to be four, instead of three. But it had _felt_ like something separate and special. He was looking forward to a return to the everyday, where it might finally be like they’d left this entire saga behind them.

“I should visit more often,” Aramis mused. “I’m lucky to have them.”

“You are,” Athos agreed. “And you should.”

“An’ he’s not only sayin’ that ‘cause of all the brandy we brought back. Partially, but not only.”

Athos’ smiled at Porthos’ light-hearted teasing, and patted his satchel full of linen-wrapped bottles. “If by some strange fate I live beyond my usefulness as a soldier, I believe your brother’s career will be the one I emulate, Aramis.”

They had reached the city cobblestones, and the horses’ hooves clacked loudly; the noise, combined with a sudden swell of emotion, kept Aramis’ reply from reaching d’Artagnan’s ears. _If I live beyond my usefulness as a soldier_. It had been an innocent comment on Athos’ part, and yet the nonchalance, the ease with which Athos referenced the idea of his own death--

“With us, pup?” Porthos called.

D’Artagnan blinked, the sticky fog clearing a little from his mind. “Yeah, sorry.”

“We’ve ridden far longer than proper,” Aramis noted, “for four days straight. Only natural at this point to be a little cross-eyed.”

“Who’s cross-eyed?” d’Artagnan griped. “I’m just looking forward to sleeping in a bed tonight. Why can’t your brother’s distillery be, you know, closer?”

“You’re the last person I should have to lecture regarding crops and climates!” Aramis crowed. D’Artagnan laughed, tipping his head to this. They passed the last few minutes of their journey without speaking, the buzz of Paris in the evening surrounding them with all the noise they required.

At last they crossed the threshold of the garrison. “Home sweet home,” Porthos murmured, and d’Artagnan glanced over at him; there was not the slightest hint of humor or sarcasm in his voice, just unadulterated relief. All at once d’Artagnan realized just how haggard Porthos was looking. His eyes were heavy and shadowed, lips slightly parted, as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath; there was a dullness to his complexion that made d’Artagnan’s heart twinge a bit. They’d been side-by-side almost constantly for weeks now. How was it that in this time he’d tended _less_ to Porthos, thought _less_ of his insomnia and his need for camaraderie? In the nights, Porthos had laid himself down and closed his eyes, like the rest of them. It had seemed intrusive and improper for d’Artagnan to check on him then, to test if he were really asleep and offer comfort if he were not-- but now he found himself wishing that he’d done so.

Well. The holiday at Aramis’ family home had seemed restorative, but upon further contemplation, Porthos looked as worn down as ever, and d’Artagnan himself felt ready to cry at the barest suggestion that somehow, someday, something bad might happen to one of his friends.

At least Aramis seemed happier. And Athos-- well, d’Artagnan was never really sure about him, to be fair, not even after well over a year of friendship.

So maybe a return to routine really was what they needed. To wake up early, report to the garrison, eat breakfast crowed together in the mess or the yard, and head off to their duties. Eat dinner together, get some sleep, and repeat the next morning. It had been months now since their lives had fit into even the shakiest of rhythms, and with luck that was the cause behind the achy unease that pervaded d’Artagnan’s world.

At the stables now, they dismounted.

“Drinks?” d’Artagnan suggested, as they bid their horses goodnight and left them in the hands of the stableboy. It was too late for chores and too early for bed. And despite the fact that they’d see each other again in the morning, to part so easily seemed all too abrupt after spending three weeks side-by-side almost constantly.

Aramis chuckled. “I’m done in, for my part. And that’s Athos’ _I love you all but I value my alone time_ face.”

Athos smirked. “I do.”

“Love us all, or value your alone time?”

“I’ll have one, pup,” Porthos agreed, and d’Artagnan felt himself relax a little. “Mind jus’ stayin’ in though?”

“Yeah, course not. I think I might have a bottle of brandy somewhere around here.” Porthos smiled, knowing full well they each had three or four in their packs.

They parted ways with Aramis and Athos and crossed the short distance to d’Artagnan’s apartment. The candles crackled with dust as d’Artagnan lit them, then carried one around to scan the room for any overlarge spider webs that might have appeared in his absence. Finding none, he kicked his boots off and settled across from Porthos at the table.

They opened a bottle of d’Artagnan’s brandy and drank for a while in easy silence; before long the day caught up with d’Artagnan, and he found his chin resting heavily on his fist.

“Awright?” Porthos prompted. D’Artagnan nodded slowly.

“Want I should stay tonight?”

“Nah. I’m fine. Unless-- do you want to?”

“Nope. ‘m fine too.” They shared a glance, comfortable in their shared half-truth, and then Porthos pushed to his feet. “Try t’make it as far as the bed at least, yeah? Or all I’ll hear about tomorrow’ll be the crick in your neck.”

“Mm. I’ll try. ‘night, Porthos.”

“’night, d’Artagnan,” Porthos’ voice replied, and then there was the sound of a door shutting.

*

The night was warm as Porthos wandered back to his own apartment. In the chaos of the past few months he’d all but lost sense of the turning of the seasons, and now he realized that it was less than two weeks until his birthday. Strange. Although the odds were against it being his actual day of birth, he did have the habit of updating his age at that point. He kept the estimate private, of course. But as near as he could figure, he was now thirty-two, so in a few weeks’ time he’d think of himself as thirty-three.

Last year, turning thirty-two had seemed an easy thing. Now, the notion of turning thirty-three seemed exhausting-- though most things seemed exhausting to Porthos now. Probably because he was always exhausted.

He’d hoped, at the beginning of this, that his sleeplessness would abate as his grief grew calmer with time. It hadn’t. Then Aramis had returned, and he’d hoped that it would abate as his anger with Aramis faded.

It hadn’t.

Porthos arrived at his apartment; once inside he undressed, performed his evening abulations, and crawled into bed. Half an hour later, he sighed and hauled himself back out. This was a dance he could do with his eyes closed by now, a dance that he could have done-- oh, sweet irony-- in his sleep. He collapsed into the spindly chair by the window and put his head in his hands. He’d sit here a while, feeling a bit better for being upright at least, and count the bell tolls of the church clock as they dashed away the night in neat quarter-hours. His mind would wander, neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Then, in some dark, small hour, he would finally feel lassitude win out over restlessness, and he’d fall into bed and sleep until dawn woke him.

Feeling small in his loneliness, Porthos leaned his head against the window frame. Staying with d’Artagnan might have helped a bit, but imposing on him nightly when he had his own issues to sort out seemed greedy. It just wasn’t a long term solution. And sleeplessness was a long term problem now; he was slowly accepting that it was not about to leave him any time soon. It hurt, but he’d live with it.

He’d lived with worse. And he didn’t exactly have a choice.

In the morning Porthos rose, gloomy and groggy, but with some manner of hope that the day would be a good one. It was their first day of duty in nearly a month-- Aramis’ first in over two months. Today was the day, or so it seemed, that they all would return to the world of the living.

“Morning,” d’Artagnan called, as Porthos entered the garrison. He, Athos, and Aramis had already taken up their customary table, and with a pang of pleasant nostalgia, Porthos fetched some breakfast and joined them.

“Orders?” he asked, settling in.

“Letter delivery,” Athos replied. “Two, both within the city limits. Treville is easing us back in.”

“Awright. Nice day for a walk.” Encouraged, Porthos began to eat. Perhaps it really would be a good day after all.

“If you say so,” d’Artagnan whined. “It’s getting too hot for my tastes.”

“That’s a hell of a thing for a Gascon to say,” Aramis teased, and d’Artagnan shrugged.

“I don’t mind,” Porthos cut in. “You know what heat means?”

“Sweat?”

“Means my birthday’s comin’ up.”

Nobody replied to that for a moment, and Porthos wasn’t sure if they were all thinking of the events of his last birthday, or of all that had happened in the year since. Both were somewhat sobering topics. But the hush was short-lived, and Aramis grinned and clapped him on the back.

“I like your birthday because it means mine’s not too far off. What do you want for it? Women and wine?”

“Peace an’ quiet,” Porthos declared, then amended, “an’ a party, of course. With music. I want music.”

“For dancing with women?”

“Perhaps we can get him drunk enough to dance with a pole, as happened two years ago,” Athos suggested.

Aramis laughed, but Porthos felt his mood sour once again. There had been a time when he’d truly enjoyed drinking to excess-- a time when he’d been a genuinely happy drunk-- but since passing out on his last birthday and waking up framed for murder, he had gotten truly drunk only once. It had been the one-month anniversary of Aramis’ death, or so he’d thought. He’d passed out again, in d’Artagnan’s arms this time, and though he’d woken safely the next morning he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt as horrible as he had then. He missed the feeling of drinking for fun.

He missed the feeling of _having_ fun.

Damn, and he’d been doing so well not moping-- but optimism wasn’t easy on four hours of sleep.

“The letters,” Athos cut in, changing the subject smoothly. “One is to go to Saint Marceau, and one to Germain.”

“I call Marceau,” Porthos announced, trying to force himself back into the conversation.

“Wait, why are we splitting up?”

Athos frowned at d’Artagnan’s question. “The destinations are on opposite ends of Paris.”

“But we’ve got all day!”

“Just because these are our only orders, does not mean we should not see to them in a timely fashion,” Athos replied. “Treville may well have more for us once we’re finished with these.”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I’ll take Marceau as well.”

“I think you had better come with me to Germain. The household we’ll be visiting is-- _known_ to Aramis. For discretion’s sake he should go to Marceau.”

Peeking over at the addresses, Aramis groaned. “Yes, that household is _known_ to me. Thank you, Athos. Marceau it is, then!”

Aramis grinned over at him, and Porthos tried his damnedest to smile back; he and Aramis had always been a natural pairing when the four of them split in two. Now he found himself wishing he were going with d’Artagnan instead.

Then he found himself feeling painfully guilty for wishing it, and told himself firmly that he would have to work to hide that desire.

Perhaps he did not do the best of jobs. As he and Aramis took their assigned letter and headed off for the northeast of the city, what should have felt like a natural rhythm between them felt awkward and stiff. They’d spent a solid three weeks together, just now. The difference, though, was that those weeks had seen all four of them together; there were only a few times at which he and Aramis had truly been alone.

Being only with Aramis had once felt more natural than being by himself. But now--

“I’m tired of things being strange between us,” Aramis announced.

Porthos spluttered. The man had never been once to mince words, at least not where matters such as this were concerned. At least that had not changed.

“Me too,” Porthos sighed. “Wish it were just as simple as us agreein’ on that.”

They shared a sad smile then. In Aramis’ eyes, Porthos could see the same conflict that he felt, the same mixture of loneliness and hopefulness, but also the hesitation of someone steeling himself for disappointment.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Aramis prompted. “Please. Is it all still because of-- what I did?”

They’d reached the Seine now, and Porthos breathed in the damp air as they followed its banks northward. Waves and gulls and the cries of dock workers cushioned his thoughts.

In the end he answered the question with a question. “Do you really think you’ll resign your commission? Take your vows?”

Aramis was silent for a while. They had reached their customary bridge, and began to cross it. “Probably,” he said at last. “But I won’t do anything without letting you all know first.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mm.”

“Why wouldn’t you just go back to your family? You said you were thinkin’ of it anyway, once enough time had passed.”

Aramis paused. He stepped over to the railing of the bridge, stared moodily into the water. “I’m still a danger. That much hasn’t changed.”

“So in a few years? Wait it out here and then go there. You were happy there. I saw it.”

“For a short visit. For a week or two. All the reasons I left ten years ago-- they’re all still true.”

“Never did quite work that one out,” Porthos admitted, leaning with his back to the railing. “Pup was right. Rest of us’re a bunch of orphans. You _have_ a home, an’ you keep away.”

“I love my family. More deeply than I can express. But they precisely as they are-- a brandy maker and a pack of farmer’s wives.”

“An’ you’re so much-- grander?”

“No! No, no. They’re just contented, is what I mean. They’re satisfied.”

“That’s somethin’ you never are, for sure.”

“Even as children I never once saw any of them bored, not even on a rainy day.”

“An’ yet you’re the one thinkin’ of life at a monastery?”

Aramis tipped his head forward with a sigh, and ran a hand though his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I don’t know-- where I’m supposed to be,” Aramis admitted. “I’m from the country, I know, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore. But I’m so _weary_ of the _city_.”

“An’ the monastery?”

“Wouldn’t be for fun. Wouldn’t be a place I went because I wanted to. And maybe that’s perfect, given that I have no idea what I want.”

“So are you goin’ or not?” Without fully meaning to, Porthos realized he’d crossed his arms. “I just wanna know if I should bother gettin’ used to you again.”

A little noise escaped Aramis then, nearly lost to the sounds of the Seine. That had hurt. And Porthos had meant it to.

“If that’s how you feel about it, maybe I should.”

Porthos was pretty sure that Aramis had meant that to hurt just as badly.

“Look, here’s where I stand, eh?” Porthos pulled in a breath, tried to keep his voice steady. “You asked what I was thinkin’.This monastery business-- you can’t hold it over us.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Aramis staring up at him, but he kept his own gaze resolutely fixed across to the other railing of the bridge.

“Ain’t fair to us,” he continued. “An’ I don’t just mean because it’s where you went when you was gone. You can’t bait us with it. You can’t use it to hook us in like we’re fish, punish us like we’re stupid things every time you’re upset. I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t miss you. I would miss you t’hell and back. But if you’re gonna go, go. An’ if you’re gonna stay, shut up about it.”

“And if I’m not sure?”

“Then shut up until you are.”

“And if I need my _best friend_ to help me think through such an important decision?”

“You know what I think.”

“Yeah,” Aramis sighed. “Yes, I do.”

Porthos pushed himself up from the railings. “C’mon. Let’s get this stupid fuckin’ letter where it’s goin’.”

The rest of the journey was beyond awkward now, fully painful. Aramis fell behind. Porthos let him, and from that point on until they returned to the garrison they kept a few steps apart at all times. Back at the garrison Treville gave them work detail. Mucking out the stables was an awful task in and of itself, but the tension with Aramis made it so much worse, and even Athos and d’Artagnan joining them did not help matters.

They broke for an early supper, then got straight back to work. By the time the sun was setting Porthos was achy and miserable and exhausted-- not to mention he stank of horse shit. Aramis looked to be in much the same condition.

So nobody seemed very excited when they finally exited the stables and d’Artagnan promptly offered, “drinks?”

Porthos glanced up at the boy, and found Athos and Aramis doing the same thing.

“Keep this up and you’ll out-Athos Athos,” Aramis replied, frowning a little. “I’m exhausted. Sorry, _mon ami_.”

“I need a wash. Perhaps tomorrow,” Athos suggested, and he and Aramis took their leave.

D’Artagnan turned expectantly towards Porthos; his hopeful expression faded to one of utter glumness as he registered the response on Porthos’ own face. “Sorry, pup,” Porthos offered, honestly feeling it. “I’m jus’ not up for it tonight. Truth be told, me an’ Aramis had a bit of a talk, and I needa think through some things.”

Perhaps realizing Porthos’ mood for the first time, d’Artagnan frowned. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Porthos admitted. “I’m not.”

The boy nodded and offered a sympathetic smile. “You’re talking, though. It’s good you two are getting it all out.”

“Maybe. I dunno, ’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. C’mere.” Porthos found himself drawn then into a brief but solid hug, and his eyes slid shut as he basked in d’Artagnan’s warmth.

“Goodnight, Porthos.” The boy clapped him on the shoulder as they drew apart.

“’night, pup,” Porthos replied, and watched over d’Artagnan for a moment as he turned and jogged off across the garrison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, the story is finished but the final editing is not. I’ll probably be editing the chapters as I go, now that the school year has started, but I still hope to update no less frequently than once a week, if not faster :) As always, I truly appreciate any and all thoughts you have to offer on this! _The Weight of Your Coffin_ is, out of all the stories I’ve written, my baby, and I did my damnedest to do it justice with this sequel. Really hoping you all enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I have already given a fic-wide tw for panic attacks, I just want to take a moment to reemphasize that now. Also minor tw for a wound and stiches.

There was something oddly comforting about living at the garrison again. Despite the cost, Aramis had moved to a private apartment only a few months after his commissioning; to return all these years later, housed like a new recruit, felt a little like it had felt to see his family again: small and safe. The noise of the stables had woken him minutes earlier. Now he lay in bed and stared out across his quarters, listening to the world come to life all around him. Could this be home again? _Truly_?

The captain had managed to rescue most of his belongings from his old apartment before the landlady had sold them off. It was a kindness, and an effort, surely. It also seemed to suggest that Treville had always expected his return, which was warming and frustrating in equal measure. Why hadn’t the captain talked him out of it, then?

God, why hadn’t he himself seen the idiocy of it; why hadn’t he simply said goodbye and taken his vows without all the secrecy? Surely his absence, by any means, would have ensured his friends’ safety? They’d have been angry, of course-- Porthos especially-- but they could have missed him knowing that he was safely dying of boredom in some dusty cloister.

But no, it wasn’t good enough. Adele was one thing, but as the dauphin grew-- if a resemblance appeared, if his face was available for comparison-- no, it had been better to erase himself completely.

So why hadn’t he? Why had he come back? Did his return make him he worst hypocrite of all?

Aramis rolled onto his front and hid his face in the pillow. His large, lovely bed had been sold off before Treville could intervene, but this one was good enough-- good enough to tempt him to stay there all day, burrow under the blankets despite the summer heat and simply hide from the world.

Hypocrisy notwithstanding, he was indeed here for now. It was a prospect he’d dreamed of nightly during his time at the monastery, but never in all of those imagined variations of his return had he pictured Porthos being as angry as he actually was.

And it hurt him, more than he could have imagined.

Aramis lay in bed until he was sure he’d miss breakfast; he needed to steel himself for a few minutes more before facing Porthos, and in any case he was sick from the stress and would only feel sicker if he ate.

Eventually, though, he had to face the day. Breakfast had surely ended by now, and there was every chance he’d also missed roll call.

“Missed roll call,” d’Artagnan confirmed, as Aramis joined him and Athos in the yard.

Aramis tried not to grumble, and failed. “I did not accept a transfer out of His Majesty’s armies only to still be treated like a common foot soldier.”

“In truth I think Aramis often forgets the existence of roll call,” Athos noted. “Porthos’ tardiness, on the other hand, is less expected.”

“He’s not with you?”

“We were hoping he was with you,” d’Artagnan replied, growing visibly nervous, but before he could say anything else, Athos nodded across the yard. Porthos was approaching. He looked absolutely exhausted, but Aramis felt himself relaxing; afraid as he was to face Porthos, he was much more upset at the idea of the man’s absence.

“Mornin’,” Porthos grunted, once he’d reached them. They all chorused their good mornings back at him, and Porthos offered a tired smile back to each.

Receiving that smile surprised Aramis. He smiled back, almost timidly, as Athos announced, “we have orders. The king wishes to go hunting.”

“My favorite,” d’Artagnan quipped. He looked better for having all three of them at hand. They circled the garrison and came to the stables-- where Athos stopped dead two steps in the door.

His voice was cold and perfectly steady. “Where’s Roger?”

Jacques popped up from where’d he’d been grooming another horse, looking suitably intimidated. “Not to worry, sir, he’s all right. Came out this mornin’ and one of his shoes was loose. Captain said see to it straight away, so I’ve already taken him to the farrier.”

The barest sigh escaped Athos’ lips. “I see. He was due to be reshod next week anyway.”

“I’ve got this girl all ready for ya,” the boy said, patting the cream-colored mare affectionately.

Aramis tried not to laugh as Athos regarded the horse that wasn’t Roger with a sour expression. Athos did not like riding other horses. He made no attempt to pretend otherwise, and never had; most musketeers, Aramis included, bonded with their mounts, but none so much as Athos.

“Get on then, Ath,” Porthos called, swinging up onto his own horse. “King’s waitin’.”

Another sigh, and Athos walked, back stiff, to the stable that Jacques had hurriedly vacated.

Aramis didn’t see what happened next. Occupied with mounting his own horse, he did not look up until he heard a whiny, then a thud, then Athos cursing quietly.

“Holy hell!” Porthos crowed. “She actually threw ya?” Aramis dismounted and lunged out from his stable to see Athos, down in the hay, sprawled out besides the mare and glowering up at her resentfully.

“Oh-- oh,” Aramis squeaked, trying not to laugh. “She did. She threw you.”

“So it would seem,” Athos replied, annoyance coloring his words and making them somewhat less smooth than usual. In fact, he sounded embarrassed and a little bit stunned.

Aramis glanced up at Porthos then looked away quickly; Athos’ pride would not brook laughter, and besides that he was still unsure of where he stood with Porthos anyway. Instead it was best to simply move on.

But before this could happen, before Aramis could clear his throat and urge Athos to rise, d’Artagnan had joined them from the other side of the stables. “Athos,” he cried. “You’re hurt!”

In that moment Aramis had the distinct impression that Athos had been waiting for somebody else to notice; he also felt incredibly stupid for not having been the one to do so. Halfway up Athos’ left thigh was a long, bloody gash. As Porthos led the mare to an empty stall, Aramis went to Athos’ side, knelt down, and peeled away the fabric to investigate further.

“I don’t know what you cut this on,” he noted, “but it’s a decent-sized wound.”

“You gonna sew it?” Porthos prompted, returning. Aramis nodded, and Athos let out a small noise of exasperation.

“’sall right, Athos. We’ll spread the word this happened in glorious battle, yeah?” Porthos’ words earned him nothing but a frigid glare.

“I’d like to do this nearer the window,” Aramis stated; part of him wanted to tease as well, but the wound was just the slightest bit too deep for him to do so. Athos nodded and fought back a wince as they helped him to his feet.

Porthos went to fetch the medical kit, then whistled lewdly as he returned to find Athos pulling down his trousers. Athos only scowled, seemingly out of energy for anything more.

“It’s above--” Aramis pointed out, gesturing to the location of the gash, still a short span beyond the hem of Athos’ smallclothes.

“I’ll roll it up,” Athos grumbled, and managed to do so.

They helped him to settle on a chair, and Porthos squeezed his shoulder supportively as Aramis washed the wound with brandy.

“Four or five at the most,” Aramis proclaimed, pleased to see the gash was neatly made.

“Must’ve caught it on a nail or somethin’,” Porthos offered. “Dunno what else it coulda been.”

Athos sighed. “Less speculation. More never speaking of this again.”

Aramis frowned as he threaded his needle and positioned his hands; Athos’ ego had taken most of the damage, but a gash this deep had to hurt fairly well in its own right.

But Athos bore the needle well, as he always did. If anything he seemed almost to relax as Aramis pinched the edges of the lacerated skin together and carefully fixed them in place with five even stitches.

“All done,” Aramis declared, a few minutes later. He slid the needle out of the knot’s final loop-- then felt his fingers pressing back to the wound as Athos’ hand came to rest atop his own.

“Athos? What’s wrong?”

But Athos did not seem upset; rather, there was nearly a reverence in the way he captured Aramis’ bloody fingers between his own fingers and his leg.

“Really, Athos?” Aramis sighed, and didn’t know of the lump in his throat until he heard it for himself. “You missed my _needlework_?”

Athos’ smile was small and embarrassed, and yet he kept their hands pressed together for another long moment, seemingly uncaring of the blood that now coated his own fingertips. Aramis slipped his thumb out, rubbed it gently over Athos’ knuckles.

Neither of themlooked up until Porthos spoke; then the moment shattered instantly.

“Hey!” Porthos was frowning. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

*

D’Artagnan’s vision swam and pulsed as he stumbled from the stables to his quarters, the only thing he could think to do. Get somewhere private-- that was the goal. The swell of nausea had been sudden, disorientingly so, but he still had the wits to know that he’d rather vomit in his own apartment than outside on display.

The door swung shut and he rushed over to the chamberpot, collapsing before it. His troubled stomach contracted then, but the would-be gagging escaped him as no more than a few wheezing retches. He coughed on the dryness, suddenly aware that he wasn’t breathing right.

Then all at once his entire body was pulling desperately against a sudden lack of air. He grabbed at his chest with trembling fingers. The urge to run overcame him, but he had no safe place to go, no breath left to get there-- no enemy even to run _from_.

Within the flagon of his skin he could feel his insides melting, mushing, rotting, forcing out all the air they once held and refusing to take any more in. Sweat was sneaking coldly down his face and back and groin. D’Artagnan went down to all fours then, head tilting ever closer to the ground. He could not breathe, he could not think, and he could not feel his fingers or feet or lips or the ground below his hands and knees. He could not breathe.

He could not _breathe_.

What was happening? Had he been poisoned somehow? Was this how he was going to die, hunched up in a ball in the corner of his apartment, suffocated by some unseen demon? His head spun. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to crawl away, to hide himself at the back of his own mind until this ended, be it by survival or by death.

But it would never end--

\--it would never end--

\--but it did.

At last the chaos bled away from his mind, and the world settled back down around d’Artagnan’s body. His belly still boiled. His lungs still felt small and stiff and his limbs still trembled with weakness, but at least he knew himself now, as he hadn’t a minute ago.

Utterly spent, d’Artagnan fell sideways to the floor. Full weight bearing down on one hip and one elbow, he heaved in deep breaths and fought the urge to recline fully.

Then the door opened.

“Hey, whoa, pup! You all right?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, d’Artagnan shook his head. He listened to the footsteps, tried not to tense up as Porthos crossed the room and knelt down at his side.

“You’re cryin’,” Porthos murmured. Was he? He hadn’t even noticed. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan gasped out. “Thought I was gonna get sick.” He forced his eyes open to see Porthos nodding thoughtfully.

“Still with the blood, then?”

It took d’Artagnan a moment to understand, but at last he remembered: Athos, cutting his hand while they dug Aramis’ grave, and the vicious wave of nausea that had followed at the sight of all the _red_.

“Must be, yeah,” d’Artagnan rasped. He tucked his head down and took a few more deep breaths.

A big, warm hand started rubbing his back and d’Artagnan relaxed a little beneath it; he had yet to find a horror so deep that Porthos could not soothe it away at least in part. He closed his eyes again. Little by little, his heart slowed back to a normal speed, and at last he caught his breath.

“Feelin’ better?” Porthos prompted, a few minutes later.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan heard himself say, and it was only half a lie. He was shaking still, feeling woozy and feeble and altogether shitty-- but by now he was fairly sure that he wasn’t actually going to vomit, or faint. That had to count for something.

“Up we go, then. Still got a king to attend, an’ all.”

D’Artagnan got to his feet, fighting dizziness and utter lethargy. He wanted nothing more than to sink back to the floor and not wake up until tomorrow-- or better yet wake up and find that he had only been dreaming today.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured, touching a hand to his elbow. Embarrassed, but also painfully in need of it, d’Artagnan let himself be drawn into a massive hug. “Athos is fine,” Porthos soothed. “Buck up, or you’ll only embarrass ‘im more, yeah?” D’Artagnan nodded and clapped Porthos on the back in thanks as they pulled apart.

In the training yard, Aramis and Athos were already mounted; d’Artagnan’s and Porthos’ horses waited obediently behind them, saddled up and ready to go.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos prompted.

“I’m fine. I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated, as Athos and Aramis both frowned suspiciously. “Breakfast didn’t agree with me or something. Are we ready?”

“I’m ready,” Porthos replied. “Are you two ready?”

“He’s bandaged, and I’m sworn to secrecy.” Aramis grinned. “I’m sure you two will be forced into the same oath at his earliest convenience.” He waved back at their horses, a little impatiently, but d’Artagnan couldn’t help himself.

“Athos,” he began. “Do you want to, eh--”

“I do not,” Athos snapped, coldly. Then he softened a little and amended, “I don’t need to switch horses, d’Artagnan, but thank you. Only say a prayer for Roger’s speedy return, if you will. The farrier is not punctual in unscheduled matters.”

D’Artagnan nodded his assent. He and Porthos swung into their saddles, and the four of them set off for the palace.

A few minutes later, Aramis rode up beside him. Leveling their horses, he held out a small lump that d’Artagnan recognized as a piece of ginger root. “Don’t swallow,” Aramis reminded, as he passed it over. “Just chew for a bit.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan replied automatically; it was not the first time Aramis had foist ginger upon him, though the context now was a bit more embarrassing than a hangover. Nevertheless he basked a bit in the warmth of Aramis’ concern.

D’Artagnan popped the ginger in his mouth and chewed it idly as they made their way through the city, spitting it onto the side of the road just before they reached the palace. It settled his stomach, though not entirely. He still felt off-balance, and this feeling bled through every part of him: belly, head, knees, fingers. But that was not his principle concern.

What d’Artagnan really wanted was to understand what had happened. It had seemed, for want of a better word, like some sort of a fit. He’d never experienced anything so intense before, so all-consuming-- and yet there was a kernel of familiarity there. He still felt like crying every time he pictured one of his brothers being hurt. This fit, if that’s what it had been, seemed borne of the same anxiety, only magnified a hundredfold.

But perhaps this morning would be the worst of it. Perhaps he’d only needed to get it out of his system; now that they were all back in Paris, all together, surely he’d begin to feel more himself again.

He would welcome it, for at the moment he only felt stupid.

*

There was a shot, then a squeal of glee, as the rabbit fell dead to the ground. The onlookers applauded politely. Athos himself refrained from clapping, instead frowning cautiously around the verdant woods. This would be the day for an assassination attempt. A superstitious man he was not, but runs of bad energy were sometimes too tangible to ignore, and he and the others had been caught in one today. Their assignment was a simple one. And yet so far he had managed to earn himself a wound that would almost certainly scar, and d’Artagnan had gotten himself so worked up over it that now hours later he still looked shaken and pale.

He should have known. He should have known what kind of day it would be the moment he walked into the stables and did not see Roger.

Athos rubbed idly at the bandage around his thigh, still scoping the area with care and frequency. Then the king’s voice broke sharply into his thoughts.

“Athos!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Have you not been following the conversation?”

“No, sire. I apologize.”

“Quite all right. I saw your eagle eyes scanning the woods for me. I was only saying, do you think that the palace would be more appropriate for the party, or should we hold it at my hunting lodge?”

“The party, sire?”

Louis scoffed. “You really weren’t listening, were you? In a few weeks’ time I will be hosting a hunting party for my brother and a few of our cousins. Not an event for dignitaries, mind you. Just a few days of fun for myself and Gaston! Usually I have people for these kind of things, but this event I’d like to coordinate myself. So. The woods around the hunting lodge are better stocked, of course, but the accommodations here at the palace are a great deal more luxurious.”

“The Louvre remains the easiest location to secure fully,” Athos replied automatically. “And you have made many a successful shot today. These woods would seem well enough stocked.”

“Always the tactician! I admire that in a man. It’s settled,” the king declared, grinning.

If only all matters were so easily solved, Athos mused. One hardly needed an abundance of insight to see how heavily the troubles hung over his friends of late, and for once he found himself in the unusual position of being perhaps the cheeriest of the four. D’Artagnan in particular was clearly on edge. But Porthos was hardly better off, looking more and more worn down with each passing day, and Aramis seemed so burdened by guilt it was a wonder he was still standing.

More than anything, he hated seeing his brothers in pain. But what was to be done about it?

“Yes, does the king now need to send carrier pigeons to musketeers riding two steps away from him?”

Realizing that he had once again failed to attend to Louis’ conversation, Athos frowned at himself and looked round again.

“Shall we hunt our own dinner, or will it take too long to prepare? Hunting always leaves me famished. What do you think? You know, for the party?”

“Why not both, sire?” Athos suggested quickly. “Have the first courses ready to go, and have the rest prepared while you eat?”

“Brilliant! Athos, you’re a natural party planner!”

Athos blinked. This particular compliment was not one he’d received before-- and yet it could not have come at a better time.

Back at the garrison that night, Athos pulled d’Artagnan aside.

“I’m fine,” the boy insisted, before Athos could get a word out. “Feeling much better now, really.”

“I am glad to hear it. Because we have work to do.”

D’Artagnan relaxed as it became clear that he himself was not the focus of the conversation. “What sort of work?”

“Preparations. Porthos’ birthday is in less than two weeks, and we will have to move largely in secrecy.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “You’re planning Porthos a surprise party?”

“It will hardly be a surprise. We celebrate his birthday every year.”

“Last year Porthos planned his own party. As far as I recall that meant stomping around the garrison howling that it was his birthday and that everybody was getting drunk that night.”

“And can you honestly see him, in his current frame of mind, doing so this year?”

It was a simple truth but it pained him deeply, and from what Athos could see it hurt d’Artagnan just as much. The boy seemed to spare a moment to mourn the old, happy Porthos. Then he smiled again, look Athos straight in the eye, and persisted, “so what you’re telling me is that you’re planning Porthos a surprise party.”

Athos sighed quietly. “I suppose I am.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Well to begin, I was hoping that you could see if Madame Bonacieux’s cousin the fiddler is available for hire--”

*

D’Artagnan was not sure when Athos had become so celebration-oriented. Nor was he sure why he himself had been selected as second in command for the operations-- though it was probably somewhat to do with the obvious tensions between Aramis and the guest of honor. They’d have to tell him soon enough though, d’Artagnan thought. He couldn’t imagine how hurt Aramis would be if he felt he’d been excluded entirely, told with no more advance notice than the rest of the men in the garrison.

For the moment, though, d’Artagnan was honestly grateful for all the plotting. It gave him something to do in his spare time besides mope around and contemplate the depths of his own anxiety.

In the days since the fit he’d come to no firm conclusions. It was-- it had to be-- simply as it seemed, that he had been overwhelmed by nerves, to such a great degree that it had brought him bodily illness. To acknowledge it, though, did not mean he accepted it. There was a word for breaking under pressure, especially pressure that was not itself undue-- and that word was cowardice.

The next time, d’Artagnan told himself, he’d be braver.

Of course, being musketeers, the next time was not long in coming; this time d’Artagnan felt almost more vindicated in his reaction, as Aramis-- their weakest swordsman-- being drawn into a swordfight with an intruder to the palace was certainly a more legitimate reason for anxiety than Athos cutting his leg. That Aramis won easily did nothing to soothe d’Artagnan.

Under the pretense of needing to relieve himself he had slipped away to a storage pantry and let the fit come over him like a storm.

He had not been braver. He had been, if anything, more wretched, and a new fear dawned slowly on him of the time when he would not be able to get away, when he would be forced to reveal his cowardice to the world, and face scorn and laughter instead of a mere scolding from the king about the inappropriateness of needing to move one’s bowels while on guard duty.

At least this time there had been real danger. Next time, d’Artagnan swore, next time he felt the fit coming upon him and it was for a less important reason, then he would face it down stoically.

But the next time came for the silliest reason yet. A short coughing fit from Athos, swallowing down his supper wrong, had d’Artagnan hurrying off to his quarters, succumbing to a fit even worse than before.

He had not been braver.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to be anymore.

“Have you seen the bakery to confirm the cakes?” Athos whispered one evening, once d’Artagnan had answered the knock on his apartment door. It was only two days until Porthos’ birthday now. And more than ever d’Artagnan understood that he’d been included not because Athos needed the help, but for his own benefit.

“Yeah, I went yesterday. Everything’s in order.”

“Good,” Athos enthused. Then, for a moment, he looked as though he would say more.

“’m kind of tired,” d’Artagnan said, before he could do so. “’night, Athos.”

And he shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally don't want to set a precedent for every-other-day updates, but... it's a holiday in the US and I had the time, so. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks very much to all who commented on the first chapter! I'm delighted to see that a sequel to _Weight_ is something you guys are pleased with :) The first chapter was a little slow but I hope this one got it going a bit more!


	3. Chapter 3

“You never were a very graceful swimmer,” Athos remarked, and Porthos grunted in disapproval. Athos was dripping with water almost as much as he himself was now, though some of it was surely sweat from being forced to half-bear Porthos all the way back from the river.

“I’m a lovely swimmer. It’s gettin’ in the water I never got a hang of.”

“Seemingly so. Still, I suppose you were in a rush.”

“Little girl bobbin’ about in the Seine? Yeah, _rush_ sounds about right. I was in a rush. Got ‘er out, though, eh?”

“Sometimes it satisfying to simply complete a good deed,” Athos acknowledged. “Too often our orders are-- _political_.”

“Woulda felt an honest hero if I hadn’t turned around and fallen right on my arse.”

“I did wonder why the messenger was so amused. I told him that an injured musketeer was no laughing matter.”

Porthos sighed with relief as they finally arrived at the garrison. His ankle throbbed and sparked with pain at every step, even though he was sharing his weight almost entirely between Athos and his own good leg.

“Is it bad enough for a doctor?” Athos asked, sounding careful.

“If it weren’t bad enough don’t you think we’d be goin’ t’my apartment?”

“Fair enough,” Athos agreed, and steered him over the threshold of the garrison, towards the medical room.

Once inside Athos helped him collapse into a chair. Porthos tipped his head back and sighed. There really was something to be said for the days when a man simply got to be a hero, no questions asked, but even better were the days when he also escaped unharmed himself.

Wordlessly Athos helped him remove his soaking clothes. Porthos stopped him short of his smalls, though, mindful of the fact that a doctor would be seeing him sooner or later.

“’sides, you got to keep yours on when you were hurt,” he reminded.

Athos smiled as he fetched Porthos a towel, then knelt down before him and carefully examined his left ankle. “The swelling’s getting worse since we took your boot off,” he reported, as Porthos dried his hair. “But it isn’t badly bruised. Are you sure you didn’t take in any water?”

“My lungs ain’t the issue here,” Porthos promised; he’d said this already but respected Athos’ need to reassure himself.

“Well, then. You’ll be on a crutch for your birthday, but I suppose worse things have happened.”

Just then the door burst open and in rushed a breathless d’Artagnan. “They said-- Emile said-- Porthos went into the river?”

“Well, it ain’t bath day,” Porthos replied, grinning. “What, did the gossip have me bad off or somethin’? I’m fine. Water was kinda refeshin’, in fact. Now, if it was December things’d be different--”

Still panting, d’Artagnan bent slightly at the waist. “I thought-- oh, God--”

“Whoa, hey! Relax, pup. Only in here ‘cause my ankle an’ the riverbank had a bit of a disagreement.” To illustrate the point Porthos extended his leg and waved it a bit. “Nothin’ else wrong with me, I swear.”

But d’Artagnan just kept staring, eyes so wide that each displayed a perfect black circle within the white.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos prompted. “ _Is_ word being spread that Porthos was badly hurt?”

“Hm? Eh, no-- no-- guess not. D’dn’t really stay to hear--”

“Hey,” Porthos rumbled, slapping Athos’ backside. “How ‘bout you go find me that doctor, Ath. An’ thanks for luggin’ me back here.”

For a moment Porthos was afraid that Athos would not understand his intentions, but Athos, being Athos, did. “Very well. After all I did have the honor of stripping you; I suppose somebody else should be permitted to help you dress again.”

The second he was gone, Porthos sat forward in his seat. “D’Artagnan,” he said, trying to keep his voice perfectly steady, “I see you worryin’, an’ that’s all right, but I need you to look at me. Look at me good an’ close. ‘m barely hurt. I ain’t in danger. D’Artagnan-- _d’Artagnan_!”

He could be calm no longer, for d’Artagnan had stumbled back against the wall and crumpled to the floor, heaving in breaths as though he’d been the one to only just escape a drowning.

“Damn it-- hey--” Porthos bit back a grunt as he hefted himself out of the chair and hopped over to d’Artagnan’s side. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen an attack like this. In fact he’d seen plenty of soldiers succumb to such horror, Aramis among them-- but he’d never seen it from the boy.

“Can you stand up for me?” Porthos asked. There was no response. “Guess I’m comin’ down, then,” he huffed, and dropped himself ungracefully to the floor. “C’mere, pup, everythin’s--”

“Don’t touch me!” d’Artagnan snapped, jerking away from Porthos’ hand, throwing up his own arm to defend himself. Still his breath came in ragged wheezes.

“Awright. ‘m not touchin’ you. But I’m here, pup, yeah? I’m here.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, only hugged his knees to his chest, buried his face in them, and gasped for air. He was trembling head to toe. Sweat began to darken the folds of his shirt, bead up at the back of his neck, and all Porthos could do was sit silently by until at last the attack passed from him.

When it was over d’Artagnan let his arms fall to his sides.

“C’mon back t’me, li’l brother,” Porthos murmured. “I can see you tryin’ to.”

Slowly d’Artagnan raised his head and lowered his legs; he’d been crying, but tears seemed the least of it. His throat worked spasmodically.

“You needa throw up?” Porthos prompted. After a moment’s contemplation, d’Artagnan shook his head. “Good. Now, you didn’t want me touchin’ you, an’ that was fine. But would you mind it now?”

“No,” d’Artagnan croaked. He didn’t come closer, but didn’t move away either as Porthos scooched over and slung an arm around his shoulders.

“Take your time,” Porthos soothed. “’specially seein’ as I don’t think I’ll be gettin’ up without your help anyhow.”

A huff of soggy laughter escaped. Porthos slipped his fingers into the silky, sweaty strands of d’Artagnan’s hair, and petted his head a while, until at last the boy was breathing evenly.

“Well,” Porthos ventured, when all seemed calm. “Guess it’s more ‘n the blood that gets to ya. Seein’ as I weren’t even bleedin’.”

D’Artagnan sighed massively. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time one of the three of you even comes close to being hurt, I-- panic.”

“C’mon. You just got a bit upset.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said. “My heart races. I sweat. I get dizzy and nauseous and I can’t catch my breath. I feel like I need to run away, or scream, but all I can do is-- sit there and wait it out. What would _you_ call that?”

“Panic, I guess.”

They fell silent. Porthos thought back to a moment, a few weeks after Aramis’ funeral; he and d’Artagnan had been sharing a bed that night, as they often did then, but d’Artagnan’s presence hadn’t been enough this time to soothe away his sleeplessness. Thus he’d been awake, sitting at d’Artagnan’s side, when the nightmare hit him.

D’Artagnan had writhed in his sleep for seconds only before bolting awake with a gasp; tears came hard and sudden, and Porthos had reached out and grabbed the boy to him, shushing quietly. “Just a dream,” he’d murmured, as d’Artagnan sobbed noisily against his chest. “Just a dream,” he’d repeated, and d’Artagnan had gripped at him with bruising force and wept out, “no, no, no, Porthos, you were dead, you were dead, you died too--”

A recurring fear, then, and who could blame him? Mother dead in childhood, father dead violently and pointlessly-- and, at the time, a close friend dead in much the same fashion. That Porthos or Athos would die too never seemed far from d’Artagnan’s mind. Even now, after Aramis’ return, this fear seemed burrowed into his guts like a poisonous creature. 

At last d’Artagnan wiped his eyes. “Porthos-- how can I be a musketeer like this?”

“Whoa, hey. _Stop_. That’s an awful big leap you’re makin’. Listen, you’ve been through a lot in the past two months. You’re rattled. It’s normal.”

“Oh really? Great, ‘cause I missed the part where this happens to the three of you, too.”

“ _D’Artagnan_ ,” Porthos murmured. “That’s nothin’ but your demons talkin’ to you. ‘course this happens to us. You’ve seen me, yeah? Seen my nightmares. Seen me cryin’. You’ve seen me work myself up so much I threw up in the middle of the damn garrison.”

“You did,” d’Artagnan whispered, and cracked a timid smile-- but it lasted seconds only. “It isn’t the same. I’m not talking about getting emotional. I’m talking about _losing_ myself. When I’m having a fit it’s like I’m not even me.”

Porthos frowned. “You weren’t here after Savoy. For that matter you weren’t here for the worst of Athos’ drinkin’, either. I swear to you, pup. You are not the only soldier this has ever happened to. You ain’t even the only one of _us_ it’s ever happened to. So it takes different forms. Different names for the same demon.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called it a demon. Are you saying I’m possessed?”

“No! Sorry. No. I’m not actually callin’ you possessed, understand. Just don’t have a better word for, y’know. What’s makin’ you sick.” Porthos shrugged, feeling all at once a little helpless.

D’Artagnan didn’t notice. He had closed his eyes. “It’s just so-- pathetic. It’s pathetic.”

“Hey, you’re a lotta things, but _pathetic_ ain’t one.”

“Not even if I put my head on your shoulder and make you hold me for a while?”

Porthos chuckled and tugged him closer; d’Artagnan, as promised, tucked up tightly against him. “This ain’t nothin’, pup,” Porthos soothed, rubbing his arm. “Not a thing. Don’t you worry.”

*

D’Artagnan knew that Porthos would never simply let the issue drop. And yet he had been hoping, perhaps foolishly but fervently nevertheless, that he’d be allowed a day or two to recover before they had their heart-to-heart.

No such luck. The next morning, bright and early, he answered his door to find Porthos, smiling tiredly, with his ankle bandaged and a crutch held tightly in his armpit.

“Happy birthday, Porthos,” d’Artagnan murmured. Though he wasn’t excited for the impending conversation he was indeed glad to see his friend, and did wish a genuinely good day for him. Mindful of the crutch, he pulled Porthos into his arms. He hugged him for a minute before drawing back and kissing him firmly on both cheeks.

“Thanks, pup,” Porthos chuckled. “Guess I won’t be dancin’ for my birthday after all.” He shrugged, and let d’Artagnan usher him over to the bed. Sinking down, he propped his hurt leg carefully before him. “I ever told you why I chose this day?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“It’s, eh. It’s the feast of Saint Thomas. Doubtin’ Thomas, you know. Can you imagine how brave he had to’ve been, lookin’ up at Christ like that an’ askin’ for proof? I always admired ‘im, for that.”

“It’s not his medallion you wear,” d’Artagnan noted, gesturing to Porthos’ neck.

Porthos chuckled. “Got two favorites. It probably sounds strange to you, but when I was a kid, Charon and I flipped a coin about it. Thomas or Jude. July or October. You know how the story ends.”

“July,” d’Artagnan supplied. “Porthos, I-- I didn’t get you a present. I’m sorry.” Between the preparations with Athos and the general chaos that was his life now, he hadn’t found the time; now he felt utterly terrible.

But Porthos shook his head. “Hush up, an’ stop lookin’ so guilty. ‘m not here to be the birthday boy, anyway. Came t’check on you. ‘m sure you know that.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan sighed; Porthos patted the bed beside him and he flopped down heavily.

“How are you?” Porthos asked, catching d’Artagnan’s eyes.

It was a perfectly straightforward question, which d’Artagnan completely avoided. “I thought you said it was nothing to worry about. That it happened to everyone.”

“Yeah. I did. Didn’t say I wasn’t gonna ask after you, though.”

All at once he found himself caught between the urge to get up and pace the room, and the urge to put his head on Porthos’ shoulder and let himself be fussed over. He did neither. “I feel better than I did yesterday. Worse than I did before all of this started.”

“An’ how many times has it happened, since it started? Don’t mean gettin’ worked up. I mean properly feelin’, y’know. Like yesterday.”

“Four,” d’Artagnan murmured. “Started with the time that Athos was thrown from his mount.”

Porthos said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “Kinda figured that was more ‘n just gettin’ queasy. But I just thought you were havin’ a bad day. I mean, ‘sonly natural--”

“That’s my point exactly,” d’Artagnan snapped. “I wasn’t having _a_ bad day. They’re _all_ bad days. I’ve _stopped_ having good days!”

Porthos’ anger did not rise to meet d’Artagnan’s own. Instead he prompted, calmly, “an’ it always happens after one of us is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose it’d help if I reminded you that we’re a pretty solid bunch. Takes a lot t’kill a musketeer.”

The urge to get away from Porthos won then. D’Artagnan sprang to his feet and stalked the room, glaring at the ground.

“I say somethin’?” Porthos rumbled.

“Yeah. Yes.” D’Artagnan wiped his dampening eyes. “Don’t fucking tell me what it takes to kill you-- it takes a _second_ to kill you! Or Athos, or Aramis. I don’t need the empty reassurances.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos replied, still enragingly calm. “I was only tryin’ t’help.”

“Well forget it. I don’t want your help.”

“D’Artagnan--”

“No! Because I know what you’re going to say! You’ll say, _we’ve all been there, d’Artagnan, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, d’Artagnan_ , but you don’t get it! You _don’t_ know! I can’t handle it! Living on the edge of it, knowing any time this fucking panic could just come along and _take_ me! I’m broken, something in me in _broken_ , and you can’t fix it. So just stop trying!”

There was a creak then, and a quiet grunt. D’Artagnan lifted his head to find Porthos standing, staring over at him with equal parts kindness and hurt in his eyes.

Something in him tried to pull it back then. The sight of Porthos, leaning on his crutch, wearing an expression like he was trying to smile with a broken heart made d’Artagnan feel abjectly horrible. It was Porthos’ _birthday_. Why the hell did he have to go and make one of his best friends so sad _on his birthday_?

But he had no strength for apologies. He had barely enough strength left to smear the tears from his cheeks and rasp out, “can you leave now, please?”

Porthos did, saying nothing.

*

The entire garrison seemed to have remembered his birthday, though he hadn’t reminded a soul besides d’Artagnan, Athos, and Aramis. At other times Porthos knew this would have cheered him immensely. As it was, it took everything in him to accept all the back-patting and well-wishing from the other men as he made his limping way from d’Artagnan’s quarters back to the training yard.

“Happy birthday,” Athos murmured, as Porthos settled down beside him, facing out from the table. He leaned over to kiss Porthos’ cheek, and Porthos sighed, letting himself take comfort from it. “How does your ankle feel?”

“It’s hurtin’. But I’ll survive.”

“Of course. Have you seen d’Artagnan?”

All that comfort drained instantly away. “Yeah. Jus’ came from ‘im. He’s, eh. He’s havin’ a bad day, I think.” The understatement was almost big enough as to be insincere, but Athos only nodded.

“Treville said you’ll be cleaning the muskets today?”

“Yeah. Drop by an’ see me, if you feel like.”

“I will,” Athos replied, and then he was gone. Porthos leaned back against the table and hugged his arms around his belly.

Athos did not visit him in the armory. Neither did d’Artagnan, and he hadn’t seen Aramis all day, though the captain did drop by around noon with a large plate of lunch food.

“Thought I’d keep you off that leg as much as possible,” Treville noted. “As long as you don’t mind eating in here.”

He didn’t mind, because as the day wore on he’d been feeling increasingly unsociable, uncharitable towards the world at large, and inclined to stay hidden away here. In his sadness his mind had seen fit to drag up all manner of refuse. Now, huddled up in there with gun polish dripping from his fingers he found himself not only fretting over d’Artagnan and seething over Aramis, but from out of nowhere missing Charon as well. In a few days it would be one year since his death, not to mention his betrayal. Porthos kept on cleaning, and waited for the day to end.

Sometime around six, Athos finally did come to visit. By that point Porthos was so deeply entrenched in self-pity that he greeted him with little more than a grunt.

Athos frowned and came to his side. “How does your ankle feel?”

“’s fine,” Porthos snapped, then groaned to hear himself be so short-tempered. “Shit, sorry, Ath. It, eh. It hurts enough. Guess it’s makin’ me grumpy.”

Athos cracked a smile. “Perhaps it will cheer you to know that Treville sends a message that you may stop for the day.”

“Mm. Thanks. Think I’ll go have a lie-down and contemplate my own mortality.”

The smile transmuted to a smirk, and Athos touched a hand to Porthos’ shoulder. “Evidently that did not cheer you much.”

Porthos shrugged. “Sorry.”

“No need for apologies. It is your birthday, after all. And, on that topic--” Athos reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of new gloves. Despite it all, Porthos felt himself smile.

“Yours were looking a bit tatty. Even before they went into the Seine yesterday.”

“I’ll say. I didn’t even wear ‘em today.”

Porthos hastily wiped his hands on a rag before accepting the gloves from Athos. Then he slid them on to admire them. They were a deep brown leather, well made and evenly stitched, and they fit his large hands perfectly.

“They’re wonderful, Athos,” he enthused. “Thank you. C’mere.”

Athos stooped obediently to receive the hug, then stood and extended his hand to help pull Porthos to his feet. “There’s something else. But I’ve left it in the training yard.”

Porthos chuckled as he found his balance. “Well, all right, then. Lead on.”

Athos did, keeping a slow enough pace that Porthos could fall into step beside him. He was feeling marginally better now. A bit cranky, a bit sorry for himself, but calmer just by virtue of Athos’ company.

Still nothing could have prepared him for the second half of his gift.

Athos held the door to the armory open for him, and Porthos limped out into the training yard-- and found himself facing down what looked to be every musketeer in the garrison. The yard was done up like a king’s gala. Food and wine filled every table, and a trio of fiddlers had set themselves up on the platform of the stairs to Treville’s office.

“Happy birthday!” everybody chorused. But the voice that Porthos’ ears honed in on was Athos’, offering the words much more quietly, and just at Porthos’ side.

Porthos blinked. He had the distinct impression that he was breathing too fast, and yet he did not seem to be breathing enough at all. His eyes and nose stung with impending tears. He knew that he was supposed to say something, then-- all attention was on him, after all-- but the suddenness of it all had him feeling a little off-balance, the crutch not helping, and it was just too much, it really was, too much kindness for a man so unworthy, and too much commotion for a man who’d slept perhaps three hours last night, and instead of hugging Athos or shouting his thanks to the men or even just declaring the party started--

Porthos turned and fled.

*

Athos watched in dismay as Porthos dug his crutch into his armpit and hobbled away as quickly as it would carry him.

Silly, perhaps, but Athos could have wept then.

He hesitated a moment before letting the captain propel him in the direction of Porthos’ retreat. Perhaps Porthos only wanted privacy. Athos was not keen on the idea of violating this desire twice in a matter of minutes, but at the same time he wanted quite badly to see him. If only to apologize.

Athos found him in the stables. Porthos was slumped against a support beam, eyes squeezed shut.

“Porthos.”

The sound of his name led to him to crack his eyes open at least, and he blinked up at Athos, looking dazed.

“I-- apologize,” Athos said, voice stiff even to his own ears. “I presumed too much. I was carried away with the idea and I did not stop--”

“Hey.” Porthos held up a hand, then pushed himself upright on his crutch. “Athos, I was only caught off-guard, is all. I love it. ’m _thrilled_.”

Thrilled?

“You hardly look it,” Athos could not stop himself from noting.

“That’s ‘cause I’m an absolute cock.” Porthos shook his head, drawing closer. “I needed a minute t’collect myself and I didn’t stop t’think how it would look to you.”

Athos did not know how to respond to that. “The past months have been so hard on you. And celebrations of your previous birthday are likely soured in recollection--”

“I’ll say,” Porthos agreed, and sighed. “Athos, this means so much. Thank you, _mon frère_.”

“I should have asked first, ensured that you wanted--”

And then Porthos had grabbed him up and was squeezing him within an inch of his life; Athos returned the hug, feeling unexpectedly shy.

“Listen,” Porthos murmured, not letting go. “Listen. I was havin’ a shit day. I mean a really _shit_ day. Awright? I fought with the pup, an’ I ain’t even _seen_ Aramis, an’ I was mopin’ about this past year-- an’ now I’m havin’ a good day. I really am, an’ it’s ‘cause of you. I’m damn grateful. More ‘n I’ve got words to say. You are the kindest, most thoughtful, most givin’ man I know. An’ I’m gonna have a great time tonight. We all are.”

Believing him at last, Athos let himself sag, pressing his face into Porthos’ neck. Even leaning on a crutch, Porthos always felt so _sturdy_ , and Athos savored it, more than a little off-balance himself from the whirlwind of the past few minutes.

“And I won’t hear ever again ‘bout you bein’ the gloomy one, eh?” Porthos continued. “Rest of us were busy sulkin’ and mopin’ and here you were, plannin’ me a surprise party. You’re a hard one t’pin down, Ath, but I love ya for it.”

Athos did not speak, finding himself dangerously near to tears again-- though these a far happier sort. He hugged Porthos a little tighter. The roughness of his friend’s voice was a reassuring thing, telling Athos that they both were similarly emotional.

“Just watch out, come September,” Porthos warned, wiping his eyes, as at last they pulled apart. “Too many years you’ve gotten away with just drinkin’ brandy ‘stead of wine. Gotta celebrate you turnin’-- what is it? Thirty-eight? Forty?”

“Thirty-five, and you know it,” Athos sniffed. Porthos’ grin was nothing short of wicked.

“All right, all right. But fuckin’ hell, five years from now I’m invitin’ the whole a’Paris.”

“If you insist. Shall we return, then?”

“I think we should indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It totally would have been more suspenseful to cut the chapter one section before where I did... but then I pictured Athos standing there watching Porthos run away after he'd just planned him the best party ever with the whole garrison watching this take place and Athos was only trying to make him happy but he fucked that right up and now he kind of just wants to shut himself in Treville's office and break down and cry... and I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave Athos like that. He needed an explanation and a hug, pronto. So.


	4. Chapter 4

Years ago, if Porthos had pulled such an exit, Aramis would have been the one to go after him. No-- even just months ago. Now he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with d’Artagnan and waited for Athos to bring him back.

Blessedly it did not take long. Only a few minutes after they had left, Porthos and Athos returned, both a little teary-eyed but smiling widely.

“Sorry, lads,” Porthos roared. “The birthday cripple’s back an’ all is right with the world!”

The garrison broke into bawdy applause. Somebody called for a speech, to which Porthos scoffed and replied, “bring on the wine and God bless Athos! How’s that for your speech?”

Athos blushed a vivid red as the rest of the musketeers cheered anew.

The fiddlers took this as their cue to begin, and soon the party was well under way, laughing men spread all across the training yard. The air buzzed with music and drink. Before long it became clear that most of the musketeers had brought their own supply of liquor as well, and Aramis watched as Porthos was passed from group to group, getting drunker by the minute as various mugs and tankards were foisted upon him.

Aramis, on the other hand, found himself gravitating towards the edge of the festivities. He wanted, quite badly, to go and wish Porthos well, give him a proper hug and the box of candied fruits that he’d been carrying around awkwardly all night. But it was probably best not to. Instead he found a pile of other gifts and tokens growing on a table, left his present there, and found a friendly bit of wall to settle down against.

He passed a few minutes drinking alone. But before too long there came a quiet sigh from somewhere above his head, and then Athos sat down beside him.

Aramis smiled over at him. “Before you say anything, _mon ami_ , let me warn you that if _you_ encourage _me_ to socialize more, I think the earth may actually start spinning backwards.”

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Granted,” he said. “But allow me to remind you that the guest of honor is, in fact, your closest friend.”

“Remind _him_ of that,” Aramis huffed, and gulped down the last of his drink. But Athos knew better than to blame this on Porthos. _Clearly_ , since he’d planned more than half of the party before even mentioning it to Aramis a few days ago.

“Sulk if you wish. It is certainly my favorite pastime at parties.” Athos pushed to his feet. “Only do wish him well at least, Aramis.”

Left alone again, Aramis eventually got up and wandering the party, accepting a few more drinks and getting in a few casual conversations. He found d’Artagnan before long. The boy looked only marginally more cheerful than he himself was, working slowly through what seemed to be only his first or second cup of wine.

Then, all at once, he came face-to-face with Porthos.

“Porthos,” he stammered, in the unfortunate space of being too drunk for the conversation and simultaneously not drunk enough for it at all.

Porthos, it seemed, was plenty drunk enough. “Aramis!” he cried, letting his crutch fall away from his side as he scooped Aramis up in a massive bear hug. For a moment Aramis could only stand there. Then, seizing the opportunity, he hugged back fiercely, squeezing and being squeezed and all at once feeling a thousand times better, like the weight of the entire cosmos had been lifted off his shoulders.

“Happy birthday, Porthos,” Aramis whispered. “I wish you the best year a man could have.” He drew back, kissed Porthos on the cheek, and received a kiss in return, fully on the lips. Then Porthos was hugging him close again.

“Miss you,” Porthos slurred, maybe even drunker than Aramis had thought at first. “I miss you so fuckin’ much.”

Aramis did not know what to say to that. He hugged Porthos a while longer, then continued to hold him upright while Emile fetched the lost crutch and fixed it back under Porthos’ arm.

“Aramis!” Henri cried, joining them. “We were lookin’ for you everywhere! Porthos, you haven’t forgotten, have you?” Grinning broadly and with a flourishing bow, he presented a melon.

“Ha!” Porthos cackled. “No, _fuck_ , I did forget! Aramis, look! ‘Ri found a melon. Ready?”

“Ready?” Aramis repeated, frowning.

“Where’s my pistol?” Porthos bellowed, and was promptly reminded that it was still at his hip.

Surely they weren’t-- we they really going to?

Henri pressed the melon into his hands then, and for a moment all Aramis’ half-drunk mind could focus on was the roughness of its skin. They were. They were going to do this.

“Go on,” Porthos prompted, gesturing across the yard. “Ain’t forgotten your mark, have ya?”

Aramis blinked down at the melon, now feeling incredibly sober. On a scale of inebriation, one to ten, Porthos had always hovered around a healthy six or seven when he’d made the shot on birthdays past. Now he was firmly at a nine. Maybe even a nine and a half. And yet--

It was the first token of friendship that had passed between them in two weeks. Porthos was talking to him. Laughing with him. Porthos had hugged him and kissed him.

Porthos _missed_ him.

How could he not?

A sense of resolve settled over Aramis then, and he walked to the far side of the garrison and turned back to face Porthos. A crowd was growing. If anyone else realized that Porthos was too drunk to be doing this, nobody spoke up.

Aramis backed up to the support beam. With care and just a touch of showmanship, he positioned the melon atop his head-- then looked across the yard and met Porthos’ eye.

A still drunk and very stupid part of his mind decided something then: if Porthos missed, if Porthos hit him, that would be all right. This game, this tradition, had always been a symbol of friendship and trust between them. And if he were to die, wrapped warm within the folds of that friendship-- somehow that seemed a little less lonely than to live without it.

“Wait, Porthos, don’t!” somebody called, perhaps finally realizing the recklessness of it all, but by that point it was too late.

Aramis smiled his readiness. Porthos raised his pistol, winked, and fired.

The smell of melon followed hard upon the smell of gunpowder, and drippy pulp ran in chunks down Aramis’ face. The garrison burst into applause. And then he and Porthos were stumbling to each other, grabbing each other up in another embrace, and for just a minute everything was all right.

*

“Wait, Porthos, don’t!” d’Artagnan screeched. Caught up in conversation with the captain, neither of them had noticed what was going on until Aramis was already in position.

Nobody listened. Porthos fired.

The melon exploded just above Aramis’ skull, bits raining down everywhere, and the musketeers all began cheering uproariously. The noise of it was deafening. The gunshot still echoed in his ears.

“ _Idiots_ ,” the captain snarled, and then a moment later and much more softly: “d’Artagnan?”

The tilt of alcohol made it even harder to contain himself; a fit was imminent, and all d’Artagnan could think to do was remove himself from the party lest he spoil it for the others.

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I’m just feeling kind of sick, captain. ‘scuse me.”

Dodging between party-goers, d’Artagnan raced to his quarters, throwing himself over the threshold and slamming the door behind him before collapsing against the wall. He buried his face in his knees and sobbed for air. The haziness of the fit washed over him and the world seemed to dim, there and also not-there, and he himself felt split right down that divide.

Then:

“D’Artagnan?”

It was Aramis’ voice.

 _Go away_ , he tried to tell him, but could not find the words to speak.

Aramis was kneeling beside him now, warm, sweaty hands working their way across his shaking body. Aramis found d’Artagnan’s hand, seized it. He pressed it against his own chest, which rose and fell like a rivertide.

“Breathe, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis was saying. “You’re all right. I’m here. Can you feel my chest, can you feel it rising? Try to match yours to mine. There you go. There you go. There you go.”

*

At long last d’Artagnan collapsed against the wall, panting a bit, though not as frantically as before. He covered his eyes with an arm. Aramis sank back beside him, keeping his hand on the boy’s leg, just over his knee. For a moment they only sat in the silence.

“Too much to drink?” Aramis prompted eventually, suspecting that this was not the case at all. He’d seen a drunk d’Artagnan. A drunk d’Artagnan giggled and shouted and told terrible jokes, draped himself bodily over anybody and everybody and cuddled them until he finally dropped off to sleep. A drunk d’Artagnan was a giddy puppy who, at worse, had to be shepherded into a backalley to empty his bladder or stomach. He did not seek solitude; he did not slink away from the party, frantic and shaky as a soldier fresh from battle.

So what had happened? Aramis squeezed d’Artagnan’s leg, hoping his young friend would tell him.

But d’Artagnan, when he replied, simply rasped out, “yeah. Seems like.”

Aramis frowned, sobered up a great deal by the past few minutes but still not completely un-drunk. He had no idea how to respond to this obvious lie. “I didn’t notice you having that many,” he said, at last.

“Athos got the good stuff, I guess.” D’Artagnan lowered his arm, but not before he wiped his eyes against it, clearly aiming for-- and failing at-- discretion.

Aramis moved the hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder now, openly inviting him to shift closer. D’Artagnan did not, and this was proof enough.

“Forgive my meddling, _mon ami_ , but you are not a typically weepy drunk,” Aramis noted, pulling his hand away. “Nor for that matter an agitated one. What’s troubling you?”

D’Artagnan drew his knees up to his chest and slung his arms around them. “‘m fine, Aramis. Get back to the party.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

“I’m just-- I’m not feeling well. Feel like I could vomit.”

“From all the alcohol you didn’t drink?”

“I guess something I ate didn’t agree with me.” D’Artagnan was trying to be cold, Aramis could tell; instead he just seemed freshly tearful.

“I’ll just fetch some ginger, then--”

“ _Aramis_.” It was almost a laugh, albeit one of exasperation. “I’m just not in the mood for a party tonight. Please just go. Have a good time, yeah?”

The sigh had escaped him before he could withhold it, and Aramis sank back against the wall. “I’m not much in the mood, myself.” Drunk, caught up in the moment with Porthos, he’d felt healed, invincible; now, passed on from that moment, he was beginning to feel a little miserable again. Had he really stared down a drunk Porthos and decided that he wouldn’t mind dying by his hand? How devoid of hope was he, that this had seemed-- for even a fleeting instant-- like something that could bring him peace?

“It looked like you were having a fun.”

“There were moments, to be sure,” Aramis sighed. “But now that I’m sobering up a bit, I remember something I thought when he was pointing the pistol at me. I remember looking up at him smiling, and thinking, if he shoots me now at least he shoots a friend. If I die now I die with his warmth around me. I’m aware of how selfish a thought it was. Only, d’Artagnan-- I miss him so badly.”

The boy blinked, looking hapless and heartbroken, then forced himself to respond. “At the very least you’ve found yourself a captivating perfume,” he rasped.

Aramis chuckled, and it wasn’t forced, it sort of sounded it. “Essence of melon. In my experience it will not smell so fresh come tomorrow.” This earned him a tired smile.

“But I mean, for that moment, you and he were definitely friends again. To me it seems like, sometimes you are, sometimes you aren’t.”

“Believe me, it seems that way to us as well. I’m getting dizzy from going ‘round and ‘round so fast. I’m getting _sick_.”

All at once there was a warmth against his arm, and Aramis realized that their shoulders were now pressed together. He tipped his head a bit towards d’Artagnan’s. They sat this way a little while, tension easing, and when Aramis took a risk and slung an arm around d’Artagnan’s back, the boy did not pull away.

“Something’s wrong with me.”

The words were impossibly quiet, but they seemed to echo in the stillness of the room. In the distance the sounds of celebration roared.

“Something’s wrong with you?”

“I overreact to things now.” He sniffled. “Whenever somebody I care about’s in danger, or even if I think they are, I just-- I take it too far.”

“Is that what happened tonight?”

D’Artagnan’s hair tickled Aramis’ neck as he nodded. “Why did you even come check on me?”

“The captain came over to yell at us and mentioned that you’d seemed upset. _Scared your pup half to death,_ I think were the words. Porthos was going to come but I told him I would.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I saw Porthos aiming at you. And I _knew_ it was all in fun. But all I saw was you, with a pistol aimed at your head-- and Aramis, clearly you knew he was too drunk for it. I pictured the worst and, well, you saw. It’s like I’ve been fighting or something. My heart is racing and I’m sweating and panting and-- nauseous as fuck. I wasn’t making that bit up.”

“Good to know,” Aramis replied, trying for levity. “ _Are_ you going to be sick?”

“No. No, I never actually am. It just feels that way, and it’s almost worse. Shit.” D’Artagnan heaved a sigh and collapsed against Aramis. “I’m a wreck. Go ahead and tell me, I know it’s true.”

“You’re not a wreck, d’Artagnan. I only wish you’d told us.”

“Porthos knows. He’s the one who usually gets the _honor_ of calming me down. ‘til I got angry with him and told him off for it.” Another sniffle.

“And you didn’t tell your friend the _medic_ because?” Aramis prompted, and then it hit him. “Oh.” He tried not to stiffen. “You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to feel guilty. And this has only been happening since my-- disappearance.”

D’Artagnan did not deny it.

“Well,” Aramis said, rallying himself to a brightness he did not feel. “I know now. And I’m going to help you, d’Artagnan.” He pushed to his feet and held down a hand to d’Artagnan. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Only to my apartment.” D’Artagnan was frowning a little, but accepted the hand and used it to pull himself up.

It was mere seconds between their quarters but the boy glanced around the whole time, as though worried they’d be pulled back into the party on the other side of the garrison’s small campus. They weren’t. Aramis unlocked the door to his own apartment and guided d’Artagnan inside.

“I’m going to ask you a few of questions,” Aramis told him, propelling him gently towards a chair. “You can be honest with me. All right?”

“All right.”

Aramis dragged the other chair over and settled himself before d’Artagnan. “You say that when these attacks come on, you sweat, and your breathing and heartbeat accelerate. Yes?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“And you feel nauseous. But you don’t vomit.”

Another nod. D’Artagnan was staring at his feet, looking utterly miserable.

“Anything else?”

“Eh. Yeah. I get-- kind of dizzy? Almost faint. My-- my fingers and lips feel kind of numb. Like I’ve just come in from the cold, or something. And I, you know. I sort of-- shake. And--”

“And?”

“Cry? Oh my god, it sounds even more pathetic when I heard myself say it.”

Aramis reached out and seized d’Artagnan’s hand, all at once a little overwhelmed by the openness of his responses. “How do you feel the rest of the time? When you’re not experiencing an attack like this?”

D’Artagnan shrugged weakly. “All right. Still kind of edgy. Nervous. Kind of sad, I guess. Or not _sad_ so much as-- worn out? I feel like I’ll never be-- eh. I feel like I’ll never be happy again. Properly happy.”

“You will, d’Artagnan. This won’t last forever.”

“’snot a wound to be stitched,” d’Artagnan mumbled, tugging his hand back. “’s something deeper. It’s-- it’s _in_ _me_ , Aramis.”

His own hand feeling empty now, Aramis rubbed his forehead as he thought of a response to that. At last he replied, gently, “I don’t mean to say that it doesn’t feel overwhelming. But melancholia is a form of dyscrasia, like any other. It’s an imbalance in the humors and it can be healed.”

D’Artagnan glanced up then. “Melancholia?”

“An excess of black bile. It’s the humor that rises naturally in the wake of-- grief. In your case I suppose it never dissipated.”

“I’ve heard the word,” d’Artagnan replied. “I just never thought much about any of that.”

“You’re healthy. You’ve had little reason to. It is, as I said, an illness caused by an imbalance of the humors in favor of black bile. It takes different forms, but I have known it to cause attacks such as yours. It’s the name I’d give also to Athos’ affliction, though he does persist in reminding me that his temperament is naturally melancholy to begin with.”

“Right. So, eh-- I mean, what do I do? How do you fix that?”

“You’re familiar with using leeches? To drain an excess of blood, or to release bad blood?” D’Artagnan nodded. “It’s much the same. Now, the typical treatment for such an excess of black bile is the use of laxatives. But I believe in listening to the body itself. As you said you’ve been nauseous but not vomiting, I suspect that vomiting is what you need. Which makes sense, given you natural temperament.”

“My natural temperament?”

“Choleric. You’re like me, dominated by yellow bile. Between your nature and your youth you seem to have an abundance of it, and in some cases an excess of yellow bile can literally burn itself into black bile. Purging being the typical cure for too much yellow bile, I think it’s what we’re being led to, from more than one direction.”

D’Artagnan processed this, clearly fighting back a wave of sleepiness. It was after midnight, Aramis realized, and though d’Artangan had not drunk to excess, he would still have been asleep on somebody’s shoulder by now, were this a normal night.

“You want me to vomit?”

“This is only advice,” Aramis reminded him. “It’s what I would do for myself if I felt as you do, but don’t let it be said that I’m forcing your hand.”

“Eh, how-- how does that work? I mean, do I go and drink some more?” The humor was flimsy and pale, not even trying to be more.

Aramis got to his feet and went to his medical supplies, shuffling objects around until he found the old goblet. He returned to table and handed it to d’Artagnan.

“Antimonial cup. Forms wine into an emetic. Have you heard of it?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Have you used one before?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“A kinder method, if one is not in urgent need. Better than mustard seed to be sure. The wine will taste almost the same, only slighter sharper.”

“You just-- pour some in and then drink from it?”

“Basically, although the wine needs to steep in it a little while first. You fill it to the brim, leave it no more than a day, then when it’s ready you drink one half. The other half is taken only if the first does not work, but it nearly always does.”

D’Artagnan smoothed a thumb along the dark metal of the rim. “You’ve done this before?”

“More times than I can count. It isn’t just a cure for excess bile but for all manner of stomach ailments as well-- and you know of my troubles there.”

A weary little smile bloomed on d’Artagnan’s lips. “All right. I’ll try it.”

“Good.” Aramis plucked the cup from d’Artagnan’s hands and set it on the table. Then he fetched a bottle of wine from the pantry. “Meet me here after duty tomorrow.” Uncorking the wine, he poured it carefully until the cup was full, then offered the bottle itself to d’Artagnan. The boy shook his head.

“It’s normal to be a bit apprehensive,” Aramis assured him, forcing the cork back in. “I’m sure I would be, too. But for now, try to get some sleep, yes? Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

Perhaps these were the words that d’Artagnan needed to hear, for he stood and clapped Aramis firmly on the shoulder. “Thanks. Thank you. Goodnight, Aramis.”

Aramis smiled. “Goodnight, d’Artagnan.”

“Eh.” He turned halfway back around, hands raised to his waist. “Please don’t tell the others. It’ll just cause a fuss. And if this works they won’t need to worry anyway.”

“It’s going to work,” Aramis promised. “And of course. This will stay between us, _mon ami_.”

*

It wasn’t difficult to steal away to Aramis’ apartment the following evening. Most of the men, Porthos and Athos included, were profoundly hungover from the birthday festivities, and when duties ended everyone seemed contented to call it an early night and slump themselves off to bed.

D’Artagnan left his leathers in his own apartment before heading to Aramis’. He was plenty warm in only his shirt and trousers but felt the slightest bit vulnerable without his usual trappings. This was only fitting, he supposed. He felt a little too opened-up about the whole thing anyway-- though at the same time a little proud that he’d actually managed to ask for help. He only hoped that it _would_ help him. His father had raised him to be skeptical of all but the simplest of medicines, and the balance of the humors seemed a foreign and delicate thing. But he trusted Aramis. And, truth be told, he had never needed to fret about something so complex before, anyway-- he had never felt so poorly.

Aramis was out of his leathers as well. He smiled calmly as d’Artagnan pushed open the door and let it fall shut behind him. He’d clearly been making things ready. On the floor was a basin and a small pile of clean-looking cloths; on the table, a pitcher of water and the antimonial cup itself.

D’Artagnan felt his stomach flop, though he had not yet taken a single sip. For a brief, childish moment, he wanted to get angry, to protest how unfair it was that he should have to deal with any of this in the first place. He only wanted to feel better, damn it! Maybe he should just take to bed for a few days, burrow under the blankets and spoil himself with naps and fresh fruit and bakery treats. Maybe this was the wrong way of handling it. But Aramis seemed so sure, and d’Artagnan himself certainly didn’t know what to do--

“Are you ready?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “As I’ll ever be.”

“I was thinking more last night,” Aramis replied, crossing to his bureau and withdrawing a glass jar. “I’m going to give you a tincture of valerian root as well. As a choleric your body is naturally warm; melancholia is a cold imbalance, and you will be especially susceptible to this. Valerian root is warm, and its warmth will calm your heart and your stomach, and help you sleep.”

“Sounds nice. What’s the downside?”

“It tastes awful,” Aramis admitted, and d’Artagnan let go a tired laugh. “Take some tonight, after your stomach settles. Then begin to take it with breakfast and supper. I’ll leave it on the table.”

D’Artagnan nodded, going to the table himself. Carefully he picked up the antimonial cup, and stared into the near-black of the shivering pool of wine.

“Once you drink it, it will take a few minutes. But when it hits, it can be quite sudden. You should sit by the basin now.”

Frowning through the muzziness in his head, d’Artagnan glanced over at Aramis, who was gesturing to the basin on the floor. “Don’t want me dirtying your chamberpot?” he teased, sounding a little hoarse.

“I thought this would be easier to fit into your lap, if you felt more comfortable that way.” Aramis caught his eyes and held them calmly. “I won’t leave your side, d’Artagnan. I’ll be with you through it all.”

D’Artagnan nodded. His knees quaked a little as he settled himself on the floor besides Aramis, but he didn’t spill a drop.

“To your health, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis toasted.

D’Artagnan shrugged, raised the cup in the space between them, then gulped down half.


	5. Chapter 5

D’Artagnan lay slumped across Aramis’ lap, motionless but for the uncontrollable shaking that had seized him soon after the vomiting had ended. Aramis stroked his hair silently. The last hour had exhausted them both, it seemed-- body and soul-- and though d’Artagnan knew he should rise, see to the mess he’d made, he couldn’t bring himself to. Not just yet.

The emetic had worked quickly and thoroughly, and within ten minutes of swallowing it d’Artagnan had been hunched over the basin, spewing what was supposedly his excess bile but what honestly looked like the fish stew he’d had for lunch. The bulk contents of his stomach had depleted quickly. After that things were relegated to spitting up the dregs, then heaving dryly, until at last he’d all but collapsed.

Aramis had caught him gently. He’d been at his side throughout the entire ordeal, rubbing his back, wiping his mouth; at the first sign of the imminent half-swoon he’d lowered d’Artagnan against himself with the utmost care.

They had been sprawled out thus for some time now. D’Artagnan’s nose and eyes were dripping freely; he was pretty sure he’d drooled a bit onto Aramis’ knee as well, but he simply didn’t care. His head hurt. His throat hurt. His belly hurt-- no longer with nausea but with the ache of overuse, and slowly, insidiously, with ironic pangs of hunger.

But none of this mattered. None of this was what left him feeling so utterly slaughtered.

No, the worst part of it was, he felt no different. Felt no better.

It hadn’t worked.

“It’ll take some time,” Aramis soothed, as though hearing his thoughts aloud. His words didn’t mean much, but d’Artagnan felt calmed, albeit distantly, by his very presence, and by the way his fingers fought a losing battle to keep d’Artagnan’s hair from slipping down over his eyes. “You may even need another round or two, though of course you should recover a few days first.”

D’Artagnan tried to groan, but in the end only sighed.

“You don’t need to think about that now. Everything’s going to be all right. Can you sit up?”

D’Artagnan didn’t want to, but yes he _could_ \-- and so he did, hauled himself out of Aramis’ lap and upright more quickly than maybe he should have. He wasn’t even nauseous anymore. Nevertheless his stomach cramped up with the motion, and before he realized that he was going to, d’Artagnan began to retch again.

Aramis kept him steady, and held a handkerchief to his lips. He coughed and gagged, producing not even half a mouthful of liquid; Aramis contained it easily within the hanky, and shushed him wordlessly as he pulled the soiled cloth away.

Then, with equally little warning, d’Artagnan burst into tears.

Aramis had not faltered before, and he did not falter now; still bracing d’Artagnan, he reached out for the pitcher of water and a clean cloth. “Rinse,” he ordered gently, and held the pitcher to d’Artagnan’s lips so he could do so. “Spit,” he directed, then helped d’Artagnan lean back over the basin so that he could expel the rancid mix of water and bile.

“You’re doing well,” Aramis soothed. “Now drink a little.” Then the pitcher was back, and d’Artagnan took a few slow sips, fighting the disoriented muscles of his throat, fighting as well the urge to sob.

Aramis’ hands were strong and steady, priestlike on his skin. It felt like a holy right as Aramis used a bit of the water, first to clean his chin of vomit, then to clean the rest of his face of sweat and still-flowing tears. D’Artagnan closed his burning eyes. Next the cloth appeared; d’Artagnan sighed, reveling in the tenderness with which Aramis blotted his skin dry.

His weeping was brief. Now, made calm by exhaustion as much as by Aramis’ ministrations, d’Artagnan leaned back against his friend and tried to let his breathing settle.

“It’s all right,” Aramis murmured, rubbing his arm briskly. “You’re all right. It’s emotional, I know.”

The sympathy in those words sounded fairly ridiculous, which made d’Artagnan _feel_ ridiculous, which only made him want to cry again. He didn’t realize that he’d expressed this, but he must have, because Aramis chuckled patiently.

“But it is, d’Artagnan. It wears you down. It drains you dry, but it’s _meant_ to. Purging makes you feel worse before it makes you feel better.”

“‘m ready f’r the feelin’ better part,” d’Artagnan whined, and pressed his face into Aramis’ shirtfront.

“I know, _m’hijo_.” Aramis cradled d’Artagnan’s head in one hand and kissed the top of his hair. “I know.”

*

D’Artagnan’s clinginess came from illness, which itself had come from anxiety, which itself had come from Aramis’ own stupidity. Aramis knew this. And still he couldn’t help but bask in the way that the boy lay against him, wordless and needy. As though he _trusted_ him. He’d been accepted back, and with time he was beginning to feel welcomed again-- but _trusted_ was another thing entirely. Did d’Artagnan trust him? He’d come to him for advice, then let him force an emetic on him and wait with him until the inevitable occurred.

He must have.

And so, as distasteful as the evening had been, it had also been-- a bit of a relief?

D’Artagnan seemed to be dozing now. His face was buried in Aramis’ chest, one arm slung loosely around Aramis’ waist. Aramis didn’t want to wake him, but knew he should.

“Hey,” Aramis whispered, and d’Artagnan stirred. “D’Artagnan, you should get to bed. I may seem comfortable now, but your back will not thank you in the morning.”

“Mm. All right.”

“Would you like me to walk you to your quarters?”

D’Artagnan snorted sleepily. “I live four doors down from you. Think I’ll make it.”

“All right.”

Together they climbed to their feet; Aramis watched d’Artagnan carefully, but he seemed neither too sick nor too tired to get himself home safely. As for the melancholia-- well. D’Artagnan had borne it so far, with much more grace than he seemed willing to credit himself. He’d heal. He needed time as much as he needed any medicine Aramis could provide.

Nevertheless he remembered to press the valerian into his hand. D’Artagnan accepted the jar, stared down at it bleary eyes, and smoothed a thumb across the glass.

“Hey,” Aramis said, stepping to d’Artagnan’s side. “Come here.” D’Artagnan slumped obediently into Aramis’ arms, and Aramis hugged the boy tightly. He found no words to express the mixture of affection and guilt that he was feeling, no words to express how fiercely he would stand by d’Artagnan. No words to convince the boy that he would be all right. Instead Aramis held him close for a while longer, patting him on the back before finally letting him go.

He watched from his doorway until d’Artagnan had entered his own quarters. Then Aramis fetched his rosary, shuffled down the familiar blocks to his favorite church, and prayed there long into the night.

*

D’Artagnan opened his eyes and promptly rolled over with a sigh, burrowing deeper into bed. He felt-- better then he had expected to. Last night, though he’d wanted nothing more than to go straight to sleep, he’d forced himself to eat a little bread, which had settled his stomach, and take a dosage of the valerian root. Now, cozy in bed, he could feel the effects of the treatments. He’d slept deeply, and though sleeplessness was not his main complaint, still it was nice to feel so well-rested. He felt calm as well, in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Perhaps he was even still a bit sleepy, and the sleepiness itself held anxiety at bay.

And it had been nice, in an odd way, the time he’d spent with Aramis. D’Artagnan had always been a tactile person-- he knew that about himself-- and in the past few months, Porthos had taken to hugging him, holding him, _touching_ him whenever he could. Aramis, it seemed, had picked up on this as well. Miserable as the circumstances had been, he’d been soothed by Aramis’ embrace, and was still soothed by the memory of it even now.

Aramis was alive. Aramis was fine, and d’Artagnan knew that, but it certainly didn’t hurt to be reminded of it, frequently.

He rose at an unhurried pace. His stomach was still slightly queasy, and so he didn’t plan on eating much breakfast; thus he had a little extra time to make it to the yard. He took a moment to drink a cup of water. Queasiness aside, he felt well, but knew he’d probably dehydrated himself a bit the night before.

He washed his face, combed his hair, and finished dressing. Then he took another dose of valerian, rinsing the taste away with a second cup of water.

It was raining lightly. He found his friends eating inside the mess, and he fetched two plums and another cup of water before joining them. Porthos eyed his small meal critically. “All right?” he prompted.

“Yeah. Not that hungry, but I’m fine.” Porthos’ frown deepened and d’Artagnan laughed, unannoyed and frankly a bit touched by the intensity of his protectiveness. “How are _you two_ feeling?” d’Artagnan prompted, smiling. “Is this a two-day hangover or no?”

“No,” Athos replied, at the same time as Porthos snorted and said, “not _really_.”

“Great party,” he continued. “Great birthday. I have it on good authority that no less than three musketeers threw up on duty yesterday-- and I weren’t one of ‘em! So. Ha!”

D’Artagnan’s stomach turned a little at the mention of sickness, but the moment he forced himself to bite into a plum he felt better. Porthos was still smiling.

“Athos says you helped plan it. Thank you, d’Artagnan.”

“Don’t let him off the hook,” d’Artagnan replied. “He did most of it, really.”

“Well, anyhow. I had a great time. Even though, Aramis, we, eh, we scared a few people, didn’t we? Sorry about that.”

“I would only have demanded an apology if you’d missed,” Aramis replied, and though d’Artagnan knew he should put more effort into trying to understand the interaction, all he felt was pleased that something like that had been mentioned and his heart hadn’t even broken rhythm. The calmness that he woke to was continuing.

He caught Aramis’ eye and smiled, trying to convey the sheer gratitude he felt for the man’s advice. Aramis had been right. He’d been right about what he’d needed, and he’d been right that it would take a little time. Now, the morning after, d’Artagnan was dazed by his own contentment.

Now seemed a good time to show his appreciation to those who had stood beside him.

He had an apology to give. An apology to give and some shopping to do.

Later that afternoon he found Porthos still working in the armory, though surely he had begun re-cleaning the same guns he’d already cleaned by now.

“Hey,” he greeted, and Porthos smiled.

“Hey.”

“How’s light duty treating you?”

“No complaints. Was sorta the perfect spot to nurse the headache yesterday mornin’. An’ I walked without the crutch a bit today, so I should be outta here before I get all too bored.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, then took a deep breath. If he let himself get up in conversation he might not say what he’d come here to say.

“Look, Porthos. I never, eh. I never said that I was sorry. For speaking to you the way that I did, when you came to check on me that morning. It was mean and it was ungrateful. Please forgive me.”

The smile widened. “’course I do. An’ you really are lookin’ better, pup. I’m happy for you.”

“I feel better. Finally.” D’Artagnan was surprised to realize that his face was heating up a little, but it was a happy sort of embarrassment. “I, eh. I got you a birthday present.”

Now it was Porthos’ turn to blush. “You honestly did not have to, d’Artagnan.”

“I wanted to. I feel bad that it’s late too. But, eh-- here.” He thrust the small box into Porthos’ hands and looked away self-consciously while he opened it.

When he looked back he was relieved to find Porthos smiling.

“I’m not trying to replace the one you wear now,” d’Artagnan added quickly. “I thought you could add it to the cord. If you wanted.”

Carefully Porthos lifted the little silver medallion, laying it down in one palm and running a fingertip over its image. Then he placed it carefully back in the box, pulled the cord from his neck, and began to undo it.

“I love it, d’Artagnan. Really, I do. Thank you, li’l brother.”

“You’re welcome,” d’Artagnan murmured, watching as Porthos freed the knot and slipped the image of St. Thomas on besides that of St Jude.

“Doubt and lost causes,” Porthos noted, chuckling. He fastened the cord back around his neck.

“Bravery and endurance,” d’Artagnan countered, hoping he didn’t sound all too sentimental. But if he did, Porthos didn’t seem to care.

“I could use the reminder,” he sighed, and patted the medallions where they lay against his chest.

*

The summer pressed on. Moments came in which d’Artagnan still felt uneasy or overemotional, but over a week had passed since the night of Porthos’ party and he had not had another fit. He still took the valerian, dutifully, twice a day. But he waved off Aramis’ offer of another purging treatment, content in his knowledge that he was finally on the mend.

They were on palace duty even more than usual. The king was still preparing for his hunting party, only a few days left now, and somehow had forced Athos into the role of being a sort of party advisor. Mostly this consisted of nodding as the king spoke, politely feigning interest. But Louis was insistent, especially after d’Artagnan _accidentally_ let slip what Athos had done for Porthos, and so Athos-- and d’Artagnan and Aramis-- found themselves deeply entrenched in the preparations.

Porthos alone was safe from it. He’d stopped using his crutch but was limping still, and the doctor had advised that a full two weeks should pass before he attempted to mount a horse. He didn’t seem bothered by it. Instead he reunited with them for supper and spent the meal cackling as they related to him the demands of planning a royal party.

Things seemed better between him and Aramis as well. D’Artagnan had not spoken on it directly with either of them since the night of Porthos’ birthday, but they talked easily to one another, even if they did not pair off and set out just the two of them anymore.

“How many days now?” Porthos prompted.

“Six days left to prepare, counting today,” Athos replied. “But don’t forget that the party itself is three days long.”

“You’ve been at it for ages. How much can there be left to do?”

“You have no idea,” Aramis groaned, rubbing his forehead. Though Athos bore his duties with absolute stoicism, and d’Artagnan found growing humor in the absurdity of it, Aramis seemed thoroughly put-upon. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure why. Out of all of them it seemed Aramis would be the most enthusiastic about a bit of pomp and circumstance.

Porthos chuckled, and Aramis glared at him. “Laugh all you want, but by my count you’ll be able to ride again before it starts. You may be missing the planning but you’ll be guarding this party right along with the rest of us.”

Porthos’s smile vanished.

“Shall we?” Athos prompted, standing. D’Artagnan and Aramis followed his lead, and Porthos waved them off, still looking a bit put out.

At the palace, the king was keen on inspecting the field upon which the first night’s banquet would be held. The inspection itself soon became a picnic. D’Artagnan and the others patrolled the area surrounding the tent while inside the king and his courtiers chattered on.

It was Athos who saw the movement first.

“Get down, Your Majesty!” he shouted, as a shot rang out through the air. He tore off into the forest. A glance over d’Artagnan’s shoulder told him that the shot had missed and that Aramis was already ushering the king and queen back towards the palace. D’Artagnan raced after Athos.

He found him fifty paces in, with the would-be assassin, and another man, similarly dressed in bandit’s clothes.

D’Artagnan thought his stomach would drop straight out of his body. One of the men had Athos in a choke-hold; the tip of his pistol caressed Athos’ temple.

“Throw away your weapons or I kill him now,” the man holding Athos ordered. Once d’Artagnan had done so, the second man circled him from behind and forced him roughly to his knees.

“Your attempt failed, you know,” Athos told them, sounding almost airy. “The king lives. At worst you may have assassinated the tent pole.”

Neither man engaged him. The pistol pressed a little tighter to his head. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” the first man said. “You’re gonna let us go. When I say so my brother’s gonna walk away. If you try to go after him,” he warned, addressing d’Artagnan, “I’ll kill your friend. I’ll blow his skull to bits.”

The melon exploding flashed before d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“Luke. Go.”

The second man kicked d’Artagnan down to his side, then ran.

“Now. Unload your guns. Do i!” D’Artagnan obeyed, retrieving his weapons and emptying them of balls and powder. “Now his!” the man commanded, and d’Artagnan crawled over to where Athos had tossed his own guns and did the same.

“Now, I want you to think about this. My pistol’s loaded and yours are not. I’m going to go now, and I’ll be gone before you can reload. And if you try to come at me with a sword, I’ll shoot you before you get anywhere close to me.”

“For assassins, you’re not very persistent,” Athos noted.

The man chuckled-- and brought the butt of his pistol down on Athos’ forehead.

Athos crumpled.

The assassin fled.

Athos rose then, and d’Artagnan gasped in relief; with a look Athos hushed him, retrieved his sword, and raced after the man. A gun fired. Grabbing his own sword, d’Artagnan sprinted after them both, and found them locked sword-to-sword, the assassin’s shot wasted.

“The other!” Athos cried, and d’Artagnan nodded, and glanced frantically around the trees. How the hell could he know where there other man had gone?

Then he caught a movement in the trees. The other assassin, returning to help his brother, was running back. Praying he hadn’t been seen, d’Artagnan did the only thing he could think to do. The tree just beside him was tall and thick, and he pressed up against it, sword at the ready.

The assassin went by. The moment he had passed d’Artagnan lunged from his hiding place and thrust his sword up under the man’s ribcage, through to his chest.

He fell, dead.

D’Artagnan did not spare him another thought. He raced back to Athos-- only to find that Athos had killed the other assassin as well.

For a moment he could only stare. Blood ran freely down the side of Athos’ face, but he was on his feet.

He was alive.

Then the panic hit, worse than it ever had before.

D’Artagnan dropped to his knees, then to all fours, heaving for air-- certain that this would be the time he threw up, this would be the time he passed out, this would be the time he never calmed down again. He tasted bile. He could not feel his face.

Time passed.

A pair of boots came to his side, standing vigil over his fit.

More time passed.

Somebody was sitting beside him now.

Eventually he was able to catch his breath, raise his head, and saw Athos, guarding him calmly. Athos nodded.

Something unlocked in d’Artagnan then, and the tears-- typically a minor issue, lost in the shuffle of other symptoms-- roared violently to life. D’Artagnan collapsed back down. Head on Athos’ knee, he sobbed and sobbed, crying like a child now, crying like he perhaps hadn’t _since_ childhood, all shivers and snivels and snot, and Athos touched a hand to his neck and let him crumble.

He’d never get better. He’d never get over this. There had been a moment, a moment in which he’d felt all right again. But it had all come crashing right back down.

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure how long they sat there, on the floor of the king’s forest, the bodies of two dead assassins growing cold beside them. At last Athos took it upon himself to rouse them. He nudged d’Artagnan gently off his leg, then stood, and reached down to pull d’Artagnan up with him. D’Artagnan went, docile, still hiccupping with not-quite-sobs. Athos braced him, for which he was grateful; his knees were trembling beneath his weight, and his stomach was burbling ominously.

“Are you with me, d’Artagnan?” Athos whispered. One shoulder was propping d’Artagnan by his armpit, the other hand flat against his belly.

D’Artagnan sniffled. It was nearly impossible to ignore the aching desire to fold along the pivot of their joined shoulders and collapse into Athos’ arms.

He nodded.

“At your own speed, then,” Athos murmured, and held d’Artagnan upright as he moved one foot forward.

*

Although he would have liked to head straight for the stables, Athos knew he could not-- nor was he willing to go anywhere without d’Artagnan at his side. For this reason he found himself bearing the boy awkwardly up the stairs and to the throne room.

The king and queen rose to their feet, and Aramis rushed to their side; d’Artagnan summoned the strength to mumble at Aramis that he was all right, but clearly nobody was convinced.

“What happened?” the king demanded, at the same time as the queen gasped, “is d’Artagnan badly hurt?”

“Your Majesty,” Athos addressed, tipping his head. “The assassins are dead.”

“Assassins? As in more than one?”

“You will find the bodies roughly fifty paces past the tree line, due west,” Athos continued, addressing this to a few Red Guards, who nodded their understanding. “D’Artagnan is uninjured, but he is not well. He was feeling ill this morning and I believe the exertion of pursuit has worsened his condition. I fear his illness may spread amongst the court if I do not remove him at once.”

Louis nodded at once, eyeing d’Artagnan fearfully. “Please do, Athos. And do not allow him to return until he is recovered.”

“I will not, sire,” Athos assured him, then looked to Aramis. “Stay,” he muttered. “Do not draw more attention. Just bring his horse back when you return.” Getting them both on Roger’s back was going to be something of a task, but it certainly seemed a better alternative than letting d’Artagnan ride on his own.

Aramis didn’t look very happy about it, but nodded.

As expected, mounting was no easy task; Athos’ head was still spinning, likely with a mild concussion, but he was hardly about to share that news or let himself dwell on his own pain. D’Artagnan was of little more use than a child. Unfortunately he was a great deal larger than a child, larger too than Athos himself, and so much of the road was blocked from Athos’ view. But he did not trust d’Artagnan to stay on the saddle if seated behind him. There was also, he had to acknowledge, an instinct to keep the boy firmly in his arms, no matter how difficult that was to coordinate.

At last they were back to the garrison. D’Artagnan had revived enough by then that he dismounted from Roger under his own power, and stumbled only slightly as Athos guided him back to his quarters. Once inside, though, he let this temporary composure fall away again. With trembling hands he stripped himself down to his shirt and smallclothes, then crawled into bed and curled himself up in a tight, tense ball.

“Shall I stay?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Shall I fetch Porthos?”

There was a pause this time, but then d’Artagnan shook his head again.

Then Athos bent over and kissed his brow. A sigh escaped d’Artagnan, and he relaxed just enough to let his head sink into the pillow.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Athos promised. “Sleep, my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor weepy, pukey d'Art. I should scrap the rest of the story and make the next seven chapters just everyone taking turns cuddling him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... shit hits the fan in this chapter and I just want to reiterate that everyone should check the tw's in the tags. Don't want to make anyone uncomfortable and this chappie did end up a bit on the graphic side.

Aramis hurried back to the garrison as quickly as he was able, though this was not until after sunset. He returned his horse and d’Artagnan’s to the stables. Then he circled back to the training yard, where he found Athos sitting alone at a table, staring into the gathering darkness of night. His wound had been seen to. It was cleaned but not bandaged, and as Aramis drew closer he was relieved to see that it was not a large cut, not even enough so to require stitches.

Well. One bit of luck on an overall unlucky day.

Rather than sit beside him, Aramis touched a hand to Athos’ shoulder and prompted, “my apartment, then? Brandy?”

Athos did not reply, but pushed to his feet. Back in his quarters Aramis fetched two cups and a bottle from his brother’s distillery; he brought it all back to the table, but paused before pouring.

“Concussion?”

“Barely.”

Aramis sighed and filled both cups; Athos had drunk when he shouldn’t have before and had lived to tell about it. They settled in chairs, facing one another.

“He had an attack, didn’t he?” Aramis asked, after a little while. Athos frowned slightly.

“This has happened before?”

Aramis nodded and took a large swallow.

“Does Porthos know?”

“Only because he happened upon him, as I did. It wouldn’t seem that d’Artagnan wants us to know. Still I thought it was his business to tell you, and not mine. Perhaps that was unwise.”

“He did not put either of us in any danger. It was not until afterwards that he broke down.”

“Honestly, if he can have these attacks and _not_ let them interfere with his duty-- he’s better off than you or I have been at our worsts.”

Athos tipped his cup to that before drinking.

“Though that isn’t to say I’m not worried about him,” Aramis added, and sighed. “On the night of Porthos’ birthday-- at the party, after Porthos shot the melon off my head. The captain came to scold us and told us we’d upset d’Artagnan, and when I went to check on him-- I thought he was choking for a moment. But then I realized, of course.”

“And did he speak of it to you?”

“After a while, yes.”

“Do you know how long this has been happening?”

Aramis had put his cup down and was drawing his arms around his belly before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself to be strong. “Only recently. Only since my return.”

They locked eyes. Then Athos looked away, and took another drink.

“It won’t ever end. Will it? The-- fallout. From what I did.”

Athos did not reply. Instead, methodically, he drained his cup, filled it again, and topped off Aramis’ own. Then he pushed Aramis’ a little closer. Prying one arm away from his belly Aramis seized it and threw it back in two huge swallows, ignoring his father’s ghost at the back of his head scolding him that brandy was for savoring.

They sat in silence a while. When the fog of the liquor began to spread over Aramis, he hung his head, too weary to bother hiding his sorrow from his brother.

“Aramis.”

Nearly sightless in his misery, Aramis lifted his face to the sound of Athos’ voice and tried desperately to breath in his quietude.

“Aramis,” Athos said again; he didn’t touch him, but looked him calmly in the eyes. “I would do anything to protect the three of you. If I had thought such deception necessary, I would have done the same.”

Aramis blinked, and when he spoke his voice was hollow. “You would have?”

“To protect you? To protect Porthos or d’Artagnan? Yes.”

Aramis dropped his head back down. “Then I was weak for returning. I’ve put you through hell and now I haven’t even kept you safe.”

“You weren’t weak, Aramis. You’ve simply remembered what we are both prone to forgetting: we are safer as four.”

“Why have you forgiven me so easily?” Aramis mumbled. He’d sought out Athos to ask after d’Artagnan, but here they were an hour later and he was drunk and had managed to make it about himself. As usual. “You’ve seen all the hurt I’ve caused. All the pain. D’Artagnan was never a nervous man before. And Porthos, he was never so-- sad. I’ve hurt them. I hurt you too. How can you forgive me?”

“It is as I said,” Athos replied. “I understand your motivations. Under the same circumstances I may well have done the same thing.”

“I don’t understand,” Aramis whispered. “You-- you are not a forgiving man, _mon ami_. We both know this.”

Athos smiled weakly. “Perhaps I have seen what a lack of forgiveness has done to my life. Perhaps I decided that needed to change.”

“So you decided to practice on me?”

Athos’ smile brightened. “I’m not sure I conceived of it in precisely those terms. But yes. If you like.”

Aramis sighed, folded his arms atop the table and let his chin sink onto them. “I’m glad you decided to practice on me. I’m-- Christ, I’m so glad of it, Athos. If I thought I’d ruined all three of your lives-- God. I don’t think I could take it.” He closed his eyes. “I’m worried about them. Both of them. But Christ, I’m worried about d’Artagnan. Melancholia is not an easy burden to bear.”

And then Athos was behind him, and hands were settling warmly on his shoulders. “Bed,” Athos murmured.

“I tried to help d’Artagnan. I tried to help him. It didn’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

Athos sounded puzzled, newly concerned, but Aramis remembered in time that he had promised secrecy. At least he’d managed to do that right.

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I think you’re right; I’ll go to bed now.” He pushed himself up from the table, and did not let Athos assist him.

*

D’Artagnan woke to the knock at his door, and groaned. His head was pounding. The morning after a fit sometimes felt like a hangover, only he hadn’t done anything enjoyable to earn it.

Then Athos was letting himself inside, and d’Artagnan groaned again. Far beyond concerns of dignity now, d’Artagnan nestled back down in bed and closed his eyes. “Go away, Athos.”

Athos said nothing.

“I know you’re still there.”

“I wasn’t attempting to keep it a secret.”

D’Artagnan cracked his eyes open only just enough to glare up at the man. Such tactics had no effect. Swapping them out for a slightly more mature strategy, d’Artagnan pushed himself upright. “Athos, I know why you’re here, and I know we’re going to talk about it all whether or I want to or not. But can it not be now, please?”

“And will putting it off actually make it easier?”

“Probably not, but my head’s _killing_ me.”

“I do sympathize.”

D’Artagnan groaned yet again; he hadn’t even asked after Athos himself. Some friend he was, to panic when a brother faced danger but then completely neglect to care about it afterwards. “Shit, I’m sorry, Athos. How’s your head?”

“It did not require needlework. And at the moment it feels no worse than it has on plenty of other mornings.”

D’Artagnan drew his legs up then. Athos accepted the invitation and settled down at the foot of the bed.

“I guess we’re gonna do this now,” d’Artagnan muttered, and Athos shrugged mildly. D’Artagnan drew the blankets back up to his waist, feeling all-too-vulnerable but determined that this conversation would not go as badly as the one on the morning of Porthos’ birthday.

“I’ll save you some effort at least. Aramis has already told me what he knows. So I know that yesterday was not the first time you were taken so, and I know that it has only been happening since Aramis’ return.”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“I am also coming to understand that Aramis and Porthos only found out, as I did, because they happened to witness an attack as it happened. So my only real question is, why did you not tell us?”

D’Artagnan did not feel scolded, precisely, but he did he feel found-out and a little ashamed. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Were you worried about what our reactions would be? Worried that we would mock you? Or abandon you?”

“No! Christ, no.”

“Good. I’m glad your opinion of us is better than that.”

“I just worried you’d-- trust me less, I guess.”

Athos’ eyes softened. “D’Artagnan, let’s understand exactly what happened to you. Put in a dangerous situation, under emotional duress, you withheld those emotions until the danger had passed. You specifically controlled them in order to perform your duties as needed. If anything, it has made me trust you more. I put my life, as ever, in your hands. And if after saving it, you find it necessary to emote, it does not endanger me in any way.”

Tears pressed at the backs of d’Artagnan’s eyes. Athos was probably expecting a reply, but he simply couldn’t muster one.

Then Athos took his hand. “I understand the desire for privacy, d’Artagnan. And so long as I do not think you in danger, I shall respect yours. But I need you to know that you can come to me with this. After all, the-- overabundance of my own melancholy is hardly a national secret.”

D’Artagnan felt a tear streak down his face then, catching against his lip; he nudged his tongue out and licked it away.

“Try to tell me,” Athos offered, “if you like.”

D'Artagnan bowed his head, clenching his teeth a further onslaught of tears. He believed Athos. At least, he didn’t think the man to be lying-- but that just wasn’t enough to calm him. He didn’t like feeling this way either, damn it. Embarrassment aside, he was just really fucking tired of feeling jumpy and clingy and anxious and miserable. 

“It helps that you all know. But I still-- I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t like feeling like this. It feels worse than being ill. Feels like I wanna hide away somewhere, but it all just comes with me when I try.”

“I know.”

“I’m tired all the time. Carrying my mind around with me has gotten to be like carrying a hundred swords. It’s heavy. All I think about-- all I ever think about is the worst that could happen. That’s all that’s ever on my mind. Losing Aramis made me realize how easy it would be to lose any of you. I’m not only thinking about it when I’m having a fit. That’s when everything gets worse, but I’m-- I’m always thinking about it. Athos, I’m always thinking about these horrible things.”

Athos said nothing for a while; then he nodded. For a moment d’Artagnan thought that Athos might embrace him, but instead he simply squeezed the hand he was holding. D’Artagnan squeezed back.

Porthos would have embraced him-- Aramis would have too-- and d’Artagnan found himself grateful that they weren’t here. He didn’t need coddling. It was what he wanted, sure-- he wanted nothing more than to lay back down and somehow convince Athos to come with him, to hold him, to stroke through his hair as he fell back asleep.

But that was not what he needed. What he needed was Athos’ silent hand, squeezing again as he dried his face for what he hoped would be the last time.

He needed to take control of this. 

And he knew a good place to start. 

“I’m all right, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, after a minute, taking his hand back and swinging his legs out of bed. “I mean, I’m not, but I’m fine for right now. I don’t want to miss any more duty for this. I’ll just get dressed and meet you in the yard, yeah?”

Athos did not move.

“Athos. This isn’t something that we’ll fix right this moment, no matter how much we’d both like that. C’mon. You all know now, and I guess that’s a good thing. But for now-- just give me a minute, and I’ll meet you in the yard.”

Then Athos stood. “At moments throughout my own struggles, Porthos and Aramis have seen fit to call be brave,” he mused. “I cannot see this in myself. If you cannot see it in yourself either, please know that I see it in you.”

“Or maybe we could not make me cry again?” d’Artagnan suggested lightly, and Athos smiled, nodded, and left.

D’Artagnan dressed quickly and peeked out the door of his quarters, satisfied that Athos was not there. Quickly he went to Aramis’ apartment and let himself in. Aramis was not there; had he been d’Artagnan would only have feigned a visit to cover himself, but this was the luckier case. He could fetch what he needed and be gone in secret.

He found the antimonial cup easily, sitting on shelf where Aramis kept all of his medical supplies. D’Artagnan slipped it into his jacket and hurried back to his quarters. Once there he took it out, filled it up with wine, and stowed it in his cupboard, where he hoped it would be well hidden from any visitors he might receive.

He wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t want Aramis to know. Certainly the man had been a godsend during his first purging treatment, and it felt a little dishonest not to tell him that he was undertaking it again. But perhaps he simply needed to do this for himself. He closed the cupboard carefully, grabbed his weapons, and reported to the training yard.

All three of his brothers knowing was not as bad as it might have been. He was not sure if they had discussed it amongst themselves or not, but all day they formed a protective ring around them. Wherever they went, he was in the center. And it did make him feel safe, though probably not in the way they intended-- not because they were protecting him, but because he knew he’d be able to protect them if needed. Still as the day wore on, it started to upset a little as well. He had been a musketeer for months already, and had proven himself time and time again; this all made him feel like the boy he’d been arriving in Paris, back to the beginning of everything.

All the more reason to take back control.

That evening, d’Artagnan thought about drinking the antimonial wine already, but stopped himself. Purging had helped the first time, but not enough. This time he would have to ensure that he did it thoroughly, and so determined that he should let the wine steep a while longer. Still he followed the strange urge to open his cupboard and take out the cup.

He stared down at it intently, its deep shine blurred and muted in the half-light. The wine lay still, as though sleeping within. It was an odd feeling, and somehow an almost exciting one, to know that such an extreme reaction, such a deep catharsis, would be achieved by the use of something so unassuming.

Tomorrow he’d drink that wine. He’d vomit it all up. Then he’d feel better.

Then everything would be better.

*

“You weren’t kiddin’,” Porthos moaned, flopping down at the table and commandeering the entire bench to prop up his aching ankle. “One day an’ I’m already fed up with it. I think I may even take parade duty over party plannin’.”

Aramis chuckled appreciatively, as he and Athos settled on the opposite bench. D’Artagnan, still standing, glanced at the space beside Porthos.

“Nu-uh. Room for three over there,” Porthos told him, but d’Artagnan only smiled and shook his head.

“Actually I think I’ll head to bed.”

“So early?”

“Yeah. Kind of tired. I’m fine, Porthos, don’t fret. Tend your ankle. I’ll see you in the morning.”

D’Artagnan disappeared around the building to his quarters; once he was out of sight, Porthos sighed. He looked up to find Athos and Aramis frowning as well.

Athos caught his eye. “I suppose it’s worth establishing that all three of us know of d’Artagnan’s illness now.”

Porthos’ heart dropped into his stomach. “He told you?” he asked, though he knew that this was not the case.

“He had a fit at your party,” Aramis replied quietly. “I found him. He told me then.”

“And he had one after the attempt on the king’s life three days ago,” Athos added, his voice similarly grave. “That is when he told me.”

Porthos shook his head, trying to unhear all he’d just heard. “I thought he was doin’ all right. He told me he was doin’ all right. Aw, _pup_.”

For a moment the three of them sat in silence, sharing the worry for their youngest brother. Porthos’ ankle throbbed dully.

“What do we do?” Porthos said at last.

“It will take time.” Athos’ voice was quiet.

“I gave him valerian root,” Aramis volunteered. “I thought it was helping. I suppose it wasn’t.”

“Well, what was a root gonna do anyhow?” Porthos huffed; it was out of line, he knew, but couldn’t help it.

“I was only trying to head it off.”

“Head it off? The ship’s sailed, Aramis! The pup’s been sick for a while now, or didn’t he tell you?”

“Yes, he told me. You aren’t the only one he tells things to.”

“Aramis,” Athos warned.

“No, wait.” Aramis was suddenly flushed. “Can I ask? How much longer are you going to be angry with me, Porthos?”

“Oh no. You don’t get to be angry at me for bein’ angry at you!”

“I’m just tired of being the scapegoat for everything! Believe it or not, not everything that happens from now on is my fault!”

“Maybe not _everythin_ ’. But this _is_!”

“Porthos!” Athos snapped. “Both of you. Calm yourselves down.”

“No.” Aramis fumbled as he jerked his legs out from under the table and pushed to his feet. “No, I’m fucking tired of this. As if I don’t feel bad enough already.” He started across the yard and Porthos, ignoring the pain in his ankle, stalked after him. He caught up with him just outside Aramis’ own quarters.

Aramis had one hand on the doorknob, but rather than slip inside he turned around and glared at Porthos. “What are you gonna do? Are you gonna _hit_ me again? Knock me down again? _Gentle_ Porthos and his _demon_ temper.”

“Enough!” Athos snapped, forcing himself between them. “That’s enough from _both_ of you!”

Glaring fit to kill, Aramis wrenched his door open and tumbled inside.

Athos laid a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, like a blanket on a fire, trying to calm the flames. It was no good. Porthos kicked the door open again.

But Aramis’ entire expression had changed, from one of anger to one of panic. “Shit, shit, shit,” he was saying, rifling around in his cabinet, and before Porthos could say another word Aramis was sprinting out the door and down the row of apartments.

*

D’Artagnan sat at his table and stared at the antimonial cup. The thought of the purging itself did not frighten him; it had been unpleasant, but he had survived it once and would do so again. The real fear hanging over his head was the fear that it would not work. But, he reminded himself, Aramis had said from the beginning that his condition might require more than one treatment. In his arrogance he’d insisted that one had been enough. Clearly it had not been, and so perhaps Aramis had been right all along; perhaps he really just needed a bit of persistence.

Besides, he was out of other ideas.

He would try to look after himself as well as Aramis had; he’d already assembled some cloths and water, and laid them all out on the table. The next hour would drag. But then it would end, and he would sleep, and when he woke in the morning he’d be healing. Really healing this time.

Not wanting to delay any longer, d’Artagnan lifted the cup to his lips and gulped down the entirety of the wine. It tasted sharper than last time, tangy almost as blood. He took a sip of water to wash the taste away, then sat back, rubbing absently at his belly and waiting for the wine to take effect. Already he thought he felt a little queasy, but that could just have been nerves. No, last time it had taken nearly ten minutes; he would have to be patient.

But with a full dose the emetic worked more quickly, and the first wave hit before d’Artagnan had a chance to position himself at the chamberpot. He was sick directly onto the floor. He startled to his feet just as the next wave hit and spilled freely down the front of his shirt.

Something was different. Instead of feeling relief after the vomit had poured, his body was slammed with a horrific sense of _wrongness_ , a clash of burning and shivering and vertigo and _nausea_ , so fierce it brought him to his knees --

Had it felt this terrible last time? Had there been this-- this _animal_ inside his stomach, huge and angry and fighting to break free?

He didn’t think so.

On hands and knees he crawled towards the chamberpot, was overcome by retching not halfway there. He gagged, vomited, and kept crawling. In front of the chamberpot he sank to his knees, but found himself so dizzy now, so upside down and inside out that he couldn’t even remember how to lean forward; another wave of vomit surged up from his belly, and he could do no more than close his eyes and let it run, hot and putrid, down his chin--

*

The moment he reached d’Artagnan’s door, Aramis knew he’d made the right call. He’d forgotten his argument with Porthos the moment he’d noticed the antimonial cup was missing, and had thought of nothing but getting to d’Artagnan’s quarters and checking on him. He wasn’t sure what the others thought. He wasn’t quite sure what he would have said if they’d found d’Artagnan well and untroubled.

But they did not find d’Artagnan well and untroubled.

Aramis wrenched the door open the moment he heard retching from within; his gasp was followed closely by two others, Athos and Porthos having followed his hasty flight. The room was fetid with the stench of vomit. D’Artagnan himself was crumpled on his knees before his chamberpot, as though in desperate prayer.

The antimonial cup was on its side by his table. No pool of wine had spilled beside it.

“Christ,” Aramis breathed; he’d taken it all.

At d’Artagnan’s side now, they could see that he’d vomited all over his own chest and lap, and didn’t seem to care.

“You drank the whole portion, d’Artagnan?” Aramis couldn’t keep the question back as he threw himself at the boy’s side. “Don’t you remember how sick half a cup made you? How long did you infuse it?”

“Yss-- yes’erday mor--” The words were cut off as d’Artagnan threw up again. Aramis cursed, wiped his chin with a sleeve.

“There’s blood in his vomit.”

“Fuck,” Porthos breathed. “How much?”

“Just a bit. With luck he’s only injured his throat or his mouth.” Aramis left unsaid the other possibility: that the blood was from within d’Artagnan’s belly itself.

“What are you talking about? What did he take?” Athos demanded.

“Antimonial wine!” Aramis heard the misery in his own voice but spared no effort to conceal it; d’Artagnan was heaving, his whole body contracting with the violence of the spams, and it was all Aramis could do to keep him upright. Vomit and sweat smeared the leather of his sleeve as he braced an arm around the boy’s ribcage. “He infused it too long, and he took too much!”

“He’s poisoned himself,” Porthos whispered, and it was at that moment that d’Artagnan was sick again, the liquid containing far more blood this time. A thin line of blood was working its way down from one nostril as well.

Aramis had no idea who whimpered then. It might have been any of them.

Porthos knelt beside him, and the gentility with which he took d’Artagnan’s weight against his own arm was at odds with the rage in his voice as he growled, “you told him to do this?”

“Not like this! Not like this!”

“You ain’t a physician, Aramis!” Porthos shouted, shaking with absolute fury. “You had no right to tell ‘im t’do this!”

“I didn’t tell him to do it like this!”

“You-- are not-- a _doctor_ , Aramis! _Jesus_! You’re just a stupid cunting _motherfucker_ who thinks he knows what’s best _when he-- fucking-- doesn’t_!”

All at once he was tired of defending himself. “That’s funny,” Aramis spat back, “none of you seem to mind my treatment when it’s saving your lives!”

“You didn’t save ‘im! You may’ve killed ‘im!” And Porthos pushed him fully aside, wrapping both arms around d’Artagnan’s torso as the boy wailed between retches, half-mindless with pain.

The possibility of this hit him like a fist. “I--” Aramis whimpered. “I--”

“Get out! Get the fuck out!”

“Porthos, I--”

“ _Get the fuck away from us_!”

Aramis fumbled to his feet and stared down at the scene before him. D’Artagnan was sobbing between gags, drenched in sweat and pale as a corpse, limp and trembling in Porthos’ arms. Athos knelt beside them both, looking grim. Vomit, much of it bloody, had gotten everywhere-- on d’Artagnan’s clothes, on Porthos’ clothes, on Athos’ clothes-- probably on his own as well, though he could not spare the effort to check.

He should stay. He should help. He knew more about medicine than any of them-- but no, he had already done too much. Had already made too grave of an error.

Aramis fled back to his own quarters. Fear and hurt and sympathetic nausea had sickened him beyond the point of tolerance and, slamming the door shut behind him, Aramis lurched to the side of his own chamberpot and emptied his own stomach, the pain in his head and throat and belly meager penitence for the pain he had caused d’Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. Thoughts?


	7. Chapter 7

D’Artagnan lay sagged against Porthos now. The lull was likely to be a brief one, and so Athos was using every second as best he could, employing a dampened hanky to wipe the vomit and snot and blood and tears and sweat from d’Artagnan’s pale face. At last it was a bit cleaner. Athos put the hanky aside and coordinated with Porthos to gently strip d’Artagnan of his shirt and trousers, leaving him in smallclothes only; once his chest was bare, Athos wiped this down too.

He was pouring sweat, his skin cold and clammy. His lips had cracked from sickness, and there was a bloody split down the bottom one, as though he'd been struck. He seemed conscious, but not fully, speaking in moans and half-sentences.

“‘m sick,” he whimpered now, head lolling in the curve of Porthos’ shoulder. “P’thos. P’thos.”

“I’m with you, pup. I’m here.”

“Feel sick.”

“I know. I know.”

“‘m-- I’m--” D’Artagnan threw up onto Porthos’ chest, and watched through crossing eyes as the vomit that was little more than bloody spit tracked slimily down the leather of Porthos’ jacket. “Sorry,” he whispered, managing despite it all to sound utterly mortified.

“‘sall right, pup,” Porthos crooned, holding him all the tighter. “‘sall right, li’l brother. Somethin’s in you that shouldn’t be, an’ you’ll feel much better once it’s all out.”

“Feel-- better?”

“You will. You just let your belly do what it’s gotta, an’ me an’ Athos’ll worry about the rest. Yeah?”

D’Artagnan did not reply. Athos knelt beside them, watching the hitching rise of the boy’s chest, listening to his phlegmy, waterlogged breathing, and fought for control.

Porthos too had been trying to stay calm. In moments like these, though, when d’Artagnan was unconscious, he seemed to let the panic take him for a moment; now he looked one wrong breath away from tears, one wrong thought away from crumbling completely.

Athos reached out and touched a hand to his cheek. The reaction was immediate and nearly heartbreaking: Porthos squeezed his eyes shut, locked his jaw, shuddered hugely. Athos had meant it as a kindness. But this, he was realized, was a thing that could break Porthos; compassion could now put him over the edge of control.

Athos took his hand away.

For a while they watched over d’Artagnan in silence, the air filled with a breathing that was ragged and pained, and two sets that were stubbornly even.

The noise that broke the silence was from d’Artagnan himself. He came awake with an uninhibited groan, shifting urgently.

“Ch’m-- ch’mberpot,” he slurred, “‘m gonna--”

“It’s all right, pup, lie still. Y’ain’t bringin’ up much anyway.”

“No, I think--” Athos didn’t finish his sentence, but motioned downwards; understanding now, Porthos lifted d’Artagnan from the floor as Athos rushed to pull off his smallclothes. Then Porthos settled him on the chamberpot.

If Porthos was at all disgusted by the task of holding d’Artagnan in place as his bowels voided, he gave no sign of it. He remained silent, impassive. Even as d’Artagnan gagged and threw up bloody mucus onto the floor between them there was nothing but empathy and concern-- no horror, no revulsion.

Athos, quite to the contrary, looked away.

D’Artagnan was shaking violently when he finished, crying tears that Athos feared were of shame as much as of pain. Too weak to hold himself up, he lay shivering on the floor while they cleaned him. Then Athos wrapped a blanket around his naked body; Porthos lifted him gently and carried him to bed.

Athos prayed that it would end then. But d’Artagnan’s empty stomach continued to revolt, and soon he was choking and gagging anew, bringing up nothing but foul air. Reclining only seemed to make it worse.

So Athos spent the night holding d’Artagnan upright, soothing him quietly as he heaved, rubbing his arm as he dozed between waves of sickness. The boy’s head lolled heavily on his shoulder throughout. It hardly mattered-- even the most violent of his retches brought up spittle only, though frankly Athos would not have cared if d’Artagnan were to be genuinely sick on him either. In fact in some strange way that may have been a relief.

Only when at last he lost consciousness in full did the retching cease; afraid to move him, Athos held his sleep-slack body against his own chest for a while longer. Finally, feeling halfway dazed, Athos settled the boy on his side and stepped back from the bed.

Time had passed oddly; he would hardly have accused the night of being a _short_ one, but he was not expecting the swelling sunlight that he saw as he glanced out the window. At least d’Artagnan was resting now.

Porthos had started the long process of cleaning the room, and there wasn’t much left to do. Now he stood, arms across his chest, watching d’Artagnan sleep. Athos moved to his side.

“I’ll finish cleaning. Go to your quarters and wash, then find Treville and tell him d’Artagnan has taken ill and we won’t be reporting today.”

“‘s he okay t’leave?”

“He’s sleeping now. He’s resting.”

“I dunno--”

“Porthos, the captain needs to know. And-- you are actually disgusting at the moment. As am I, I’m sure.”

Porthos rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and nodded.

“And you should also speak to Aramis.”

Eyes still covered, Porthos heaved a sigh. “I know. Shouldna said what I said. Jus’-- God, he--”

“I understand. Still you should speak to him. You said a lot, Porthos. And we can ill afford infighting at this moment.”

“Mm-hm,” Porthed replied tightly. After a moment he lowered his hand. “You want I should bring back any breakfast for you?”

“No. If he’s still sleeping when you return, I’ll step out myself.”

Not to mention he’d never been less hungry than he was in that moment.

“Awright. Awright. Back soon, then. You, eh-- you cooperate with Athos, pup, y’hear?” he called over to d’Artagnan’s motionless form. And with no further words, Porthos departed.

Athos set to cleaning where Porthos had left off, but made terrible work of it; despite his words to Porthos he could not stop himself from rushing to the boy’s side every minute or two, touching a finger to his ravaged lips to feel the stream of breath as it came and went, came and went.

*

Porthos had been keen on the notion of changing his shirt and washing himself of d’Artagnan’s vomit before having any kind of conversation with Aramis. This plan changed when he opened the door and saw the man, leaned up against the wall outside his own quarters.

He was stripped to shirtsleeves and was clearly dozing; when the door to d’Artagnan’s quarters shut, he opened his eyes with a muzzy frown.

Porthos went to stand beside him, trying his best not to loom. “You sleep outside?”

Aramis nodded and, as though the words had prompted an ache, rubbed his neck firmly.

“Any particular reason?”

“I should think that would be obvious. I was told to leave; nevertheless, I wanted to be available at a moment’s notice.” Aramis eyed him tiredly. “You seem fairly calm. I take it d’Artagnan has come through the worst of it, then?”

A dozen responses came to Porthos’ mind, among them: _couldn’t’ve gotten much worse_ and _think he’s honestly just out of vomit_ and _what about me right now says_ calm _to you_?

“Stopped throwin’ up maybe an hour ago. Sleepin’ ever since.”

“How much would you say he vomited?”

Porthos shrugged helplessly. “Eh-- fuckin’ _all of it_? I dunno.”

“He’s going to need to drink. The moment he wakes.”

“I know.” Porthos leaned heavily against the wall next to Aramis’ door, flashing briefly back to the world as it had been half a day ago, when he’d stood here and shouted at Aramis because Aramis’ self-importance had been the most substantial issue in his life. And now d’Artagnan-- now d’Artagnan might--

He shook his head. “Athos sent me to wash up an’ inform the captain. An’ talk to you.”

“Talk to me?”

“To apologize. Problem is, I don’t-- I don’t know why--”

Suddenly every corner of his mind ceased functioning simultaneously; he forgot why he’d been so angry, forgot why he had to apologize for being so angry, forgot _everything_ but how how much he wanted to lie down and sleep.

Tears stabbed at his eyes, and he hung his head. “I can’t do this. Christ, I’m-- ‘m too tired t’do this right now, Aramis.”

At the edge of his blurring vision he saw Aramis push himself to his feet. “It’s all right, Porthos,” he murmured, touching a hand to Porthos’ back. “You don’t have to do it now. Shall I go and find the captain with you?”

Distantly stunned, Porthos wiped his eyes and nodded gratefully.

Treville was in his office, though it was not quite seven o’clock; he glanced up calmly, then stiffened as he took in the state of Porthos’ clothes. “Porthos,” he barked, on his feet now. “You’re sick?”

“Not me,” Porthos replied, “d’Artagnan. He’s-- bad off, captain. Been vomitin’ straight since yesterday evenin’. Only just now fell asleep.”

“Athos is with him?”

Porthos nodded.

Treville rubbed his forehead. “I can’t tell the king that all four of you are suddenly unavailable.”

Porthos opened his mouth to protest but before the indignant words could spill, Aramis cut in. “I’ll report, captain. But d’Artagnan can’t move himself. He honestly needs two to tend him.”

Treville sighed. “Fine,” he said, waving dismissively. “Should I send for a physician?”

Porthos shook his head. He didn’t think that it would help but honestly he didn’t know, just hated the thought of a stranger’s hands tending to d’Artagnan.

“He’s purged himself pretty thoroughly.” Once again, Aramis had answered for him. “At this point he needs rest and rehydration. There isn’t much else to be done.”

Treville nodded. “I’ll have some clean cloths and blankets sent over. Aramis, I appreciate your cooperation. I’ll expect you on time.” He glanced at his clock. “That’s forty minutes.”

Aramis nodded. Together they left and descended the stairs; at the bottom Porthos had to stop a moment, leaning heavily against the railing.

“You didn’t hafta,” he muttered.

“One of us did,” Aramis replied. “If we’d let it hang too long he might have forced us both to go.”

“Thanks.” His own voice surprised him; it was barely more than a whisper.

“Don’t worry, Porthos. I have forty minutes. Would you like me to go to your apartment with you?”

Would he? Actually yes, he really fucking would, but Aramis deserved to go and see d’Artagnan; it was Porthos, after all, who’d kept him from being there all night. “You should visit the pup,” he sighed. “Tell Athos what happened with the captain.”

One hand was still braced against the railing; the wood creaked a bit under Porthos’ weight but he hardly cared. Aramis found a clean patch of sleeve and squeezed his arm gently. “It’s all right, _cher ami_. It’s going to be all right.”

Porthos nodded, and found the will to haul himself upright; bless Aramis, honestly, just-- bless him.

“Go clean yourself up,” Aramis ordered, so Porthos went.

*

Porthos returned a few minutes after Aramis left, much cleaner, wearing a different shirt and no jacket. “The captain sent clean linens,” Athos told him, as Porthos came to the bedside. “Some cloths, a few blankets, and a towel.”

“Mm-hm,” Porthos hummed. Athos had been sitting on the edge of the mattress, stroking gently over’s d’Artagnan’s bare arm. Now he vacated this seat for Porthos.

“Aramis seemed calmer. You spoke with him?”

Porthos snorted. “Not really. Meant to apologize an’-- didn’t. Jus’ didn’t. An’ he jus’ decided t’be good about it.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Guess not. Has he woken?”

“No. But he’s sleeping well, Porthos. His breathing is even and he hasn’t been restless.”

Porthos nodded dutifully. “I know he needs it. I’d jus’ like-- I’d like to hear his voice, is all.”

“I know. Did you eat?”

“Nah.”

“Would you like some breakfast?” Porthos shook his head. “All right. I won’t be long.”

Athos moved from the room slowly, but as soon as the door closed behind him he quickened to a jog. He didn’t want to leave d’Artagnan’s side. But he was filthy, and exhausted, and the stench of vomit had made him deeply nauseous himself. These alone may not have been enough to budge him. But as the sun had risen, ending their tortuous night, he’d recognized in Porthos the need for a moment of fresh air, and he’d forced him to take one. He saw the same need in himself. Allowing himself a moment of respite now would save Porthos the hassle of talking him into one later.

Still he wanted the moment to be as short as possible. The distance between the garrison and his apartment was typically ten minutes, and Athos was fairly sure he covered it in five. Paris was awake now. He dodged shoppers and merchants from both sides, ignoring their inquisitive looks, and tumbled into his apartment.

And stopped.

And allowed himself one moment of perfect quiet-- one deep breath, and then another.

Then he stripped his soiled clothes away, nearly tripping in his urgency; once naked, he thrust his head into his water bucket and then raised it, allowing the water to run down his back and chest. He found a towel, made hasty work of scrubbing himself. Then he pulled on fresh smalls, trousers, and a shirt, before grabbing all the clean cloths and hankies within reach and sprinting back to the garrison.

“Has he woken?” he demanded, the moment he was though the door.

Porthos looked up from where he was sitting at d’Artagnan’s side, and shook his head silently.

Linens whispered against the floor as they fell from his arms to settle there. Athos had buried his face in his hands.

“Hey,” Porthos called quietly. “It’s like you said, Ath. He needs his rest. His body’s exhausted. An’ as long as he’s sleepin’ he’s not gettin’ sick. Come an’ sit with us.”

But for a long moment, Athos could not rouse himself to movement.

“Come an’ sit with us,” Porthos repeated.

Athos raised his head and nodded. He fetched a chair from the table and dragged it over to the side of d’Artagnan’s bed. Porthos was stroking the boy’s hair gently. Athos followed the rhythm of the fingers with his eyes, growing sleepy with it despite it all.

Outside the door came noise from the stables. Inside the room the air was heavy with the stench of sickness and the cloud of worry. Athos was sick again, with despair and with the smell of it. He breathed in slowly, trying to master his stomach, master his prematurely-grieving heart.

“Hey now,” Porthos cried, a while later, and Athos opened his eyes, unaware that he’d closed them.

D’Artagnan was stirring weakly on the bed.

Porthos rested a hand on d’Artagnan’s face, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. “That’s it’s, pup,” he coaxed, “lemme see them eyes.”

D’Artagnan blinked awake. For a moment it seemed he might panic, but all he did was open his mouth and cough quietly.

Athos rushed to the table fetched a cup of water. Back at the bed, he found d’Artagnan moving his cracked lips silently.

“Don’t speak,” Athos commanded. “You’ve been very sick, and you’re badly dehydrated. Can you drink?” D’Artagnan nodded weakly, and Porthos helped him raise his head and shoulders as Athos held the cup to his lips.

“Slowly,” Athos warned, at the same time as Porthos crooned, “nice an’ easy, pup, that’s it.”

D’Artagnan took a few mouthfuls, then shut his lips; Athos watched, heart pounding with the fear that he would bring it back up. He did not. Instead he sighed, lay still for a moment, then opened his mouth for more.

“Wha--?” he breathed, once he’d swallowed this. “Wha--?”

“Antimony poisoning,” Athos told him, not sure if he remembered. “Self-administered.”

Apparently d’Artagnan did remember, because he squirmed weakly and forced himself to speak again. “Ath’s, wasn’-- wasn’ tryi--”

“ _Shh_. I know. We go to great lengths to feel well again, do we not?”

D’Artagnan’s eyelids worked, and with a heartrending pang Athos realized that he lacked the necessary fluid to produce proper tears. He brushed his fingers over the boy’s cheek anyway.

“‘f you’re waitin’ for the lecture, it ain’t comin’ just yet.” Porthos joined him, took d’Artagnan’s hand. “First things first, we’re gonna fill you up with water til you’ve half grown gills. Then-- we’ll go from there. Fair enough?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

*

They passed half an hour or so in relative silence, feeding d’Artagnan sips of water until his abused stomach grew unsettled and he begged for a respite.

“Awright,” Porthos consented, setting the cup aside. He brushed a thumb across d’Artagnan’s cheek, soothing himself as much as his friend. “Sleep more. Your body needs it.”

“Wai’,” d’Artagnan croaked. “Wai’, I-- ’m sorry. ’m sorry.”

“We know, love. Don’ you worry ‘bout it.”

“I needa-- say ‘t-- _now_ \--”

“You don’ need t’say anythin’ now. ‘cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called; clearly if Porthos would not listen he would merely speak to Athos instead. He tried to lift up a hand but didn’t have the strength.

“I’m here,” Athos said, standing from the chair and circling the bed to sit on the other side of it. “Porthos is right, d’Artagnan, you don’t have to say anything.”

“’m sorry. ‘m sorry, Athos. I jus’ wanted t’feel better. I jus’ wanted t’stop bein’ so sad.”

Porthos glanced up at Athos, just in time to watch a tear spill over and stream down. Still his voice was steady as he took d’Artagnan’s hand and murmured, “I understand, d’Artagnan. Truly. I do.”

“Bu’ I wasn’ tryin’ to-- I don’ wanna--”

“ _Shh_ ,” Athos hushed, tamping down on his weeping with far more resolve than Porthos himself could have mustered. “Just rest, d’Artagnan.”

And Porthos realized then.

D’Artagnan thought he was dying.

D’Artagnan thought he was _dying_.

And Athos thought d’Artagnan was dying, too.

He might have wept then too were it not for the boy’s eyes bursting frantically back open.

“I--” d’Artagnan mewled, swallowing a gag. “I--”

Hesitant to lift him fully, Porthos helped him lean over the edge of the bed. D’Artagnan heaved once, twice. Then a burst of vomit, nearly as colorless as water itself, splashed onto the floor.

Porthos helped him sink back slowly. D’Artagnan lifted an arm and covered his face with the elbow, trembling with sickness and despair. His nose had begun to bleed again.

“Our fault,” Porthos soothed. “‘m sorry, pup. We went too fast. ‘m sorry.”

D’Artagnan made no reply. A moment later the arm slid from his face, which cheered Porthos-- until he realized the arm had fallen there without d’Artagnan’s control.

In that moment Porthos truly knew what it meant to panic.

Then he forced his fingers to d’Artagnan’s neck, and felt a pulse, stronger even than he’d have expected. “He’s asleep,” Porthos rasped, and heard Athos let out a breath. “He’s jus’ asleep.” As gently as he could, Porthos tipped d’Artagnan over to lay on his side, using the boy’s own arms to weight his body there. Athos fetched a handkerchief and cleaned d’Artagnan’s face.

They stood in silence at their young friend’s side. “No blood in the vomit,” Athos murmured, after a long moment. “That’s good.”

For a moment Porthos felt so sick himself that he couldn’t reply. At last he rasped out, “cheers.”

“This isn’t over yet. We should rest as well,” Athos said, glancing sideways at him. “You first.”

Porthos shook his head. “If somethin’ happens, I wanna be there.”

“I’ll wake you.”

“An’ if it’s too late?”

“Porthos,” Athos said, suddenly sounding a bit stern. “D’Artagnan isn’t dying. He’s ill but he’s going to pull though this.”

Porthos didn’t know if he believed him or not. He didn’t know if Athos believed himself. “He’s so sick, Ath,” he rasped out, the thickness in his throat almost too much to speak around.

The same hoarseness was also in Athos’ voice. “I know, Porthos. But he’s going to pull through. And he’s going to need us, and we’ll need to be strong for him. Neither of us has slept in well over a day.”

In any case he pressed a hand to his eyes and huffed out, “I’d never sleep anyway. ‘f you think you can, you should try.”

“ _Mon ami_ , you’re exhausted--”

“Ath, I mean it. There’s no way I could sleep now. ‘f you can, you should. Please.”

Athos relented with a sigh. “Two hours only,” he warned. Porthos nodded solemnly, and watched as Athos crossed the room and curled up in the opposite corner. Then he settled back down and began to stroke d’Artagnan’s hair once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for all your kind comments! I get probably way too excited when I see I’ve got a new one :) it’s getting me through the beginning of the school year!
> 
> I’ve been forgetting to note that the antimonial cup was totally a real thing. It was a popular home remedy in 17th and 18th century Europe and was used for multiple purposes, including the rebalancing of the humors. The acid in the wine reacts with the antimony in the cup to form antimony potassium tartrate, or emetic tartar. It is a poison, but in small quantities only induces vomiting. In larger quantities, as happened to d’Artagnan, it is much more dangerous and can even be fatal.


	8. Chapter 8

Athos woke with a crick in his neck and a blissful second of peace before it all came flooding back to him. He shot up from the floor, gasping a little. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep but it felt long-- too long-- and he despaired anew at the thought of d’Artagnan slipping away while he’d dreamed--

No. He was alive; that much was visible. Athos sagged backwards for just a moment sitting up all the way. D’Artagnan was sleeping still. But he looked to have perhaps just a bit more color than he’d had when Athos had fallen asleep. Porthos had not moved from his side.

Athos noted the shadows on the floor as he pushed to his feet and crossed the room.

“That was more than two hours,” he noted, as the lighting confirmed his suspicions that Porthos had let him sleep until his body simply woke by itself.

“So buy me a pocketwatch,” came the tired reply.

“Porthos--”

“I wasn’t gonna sleep anyway, Athos. An’ it’s only been about five hours.”

“Five hours?”

“Only jus’ went two o’clock.”

“Has he woken?”

“Yeah, twice. First time I got a cup in ‘im, an’ the second time almost three.”

Athos nodded, stifled a yawn.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. And twice as long as I’d meant to,” Athos added. “Your turn.”

“’m all right. Don’t wanna leave him.”

“Porthos,” Athos warned, but closed his mouth when he realized that his friend was holding back the tears no longer. Instead he touched his fingertips to Porthos’ curls.

Porthos pressed into the contact, tears running down his cheeks now-- by ones, then by twos, then in a sudden messy onslaught. Athos worked his fingers deeper, scratched at Porthos’ scalp.

“ _Athos_ ,” Porthos bleated.

“Yes?”

“Athos, if he dies--”

“He won’t die.”

“--if he dies, we stick together, awright? Promise me? We stick together.” Porthos sniffled hugely, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “None of that shit you pulled after Aramis. I know you didn’t mean it. But if I lose him _an’_ I lose you, I--”

Athos crouched down beside him, met his eyes. Took his hand away from Porthos’ head and instead gathered all four of their hands together. “I promise,” he said. “Porthos, you will never lose me like that again. Whatever happens, you and I will face it together. I give you my word. Do you understand?”

Fresh tears welled up in Porthos’ eyes and flooded down his cheeks. _Yeah_ , he mouthed, and Athos squeezed his hands.

“Good. Now sleep, _mon ami_. You are overtired.”

Porthos shook his head, cleared his throat wetly. “Jus’ sit with me. Please. I jus’ wanna sit with you both a while.”

“Very well.” Athos drew the chair closer, then settled beside Porthos as the man sniffled again and wiped his face, then fell silent.

Around four o’clock, d’Artagnan woke again. He took another cup of water without fuss, but grew visibly distressed with Athos told him to sleep again.

“Don’ wanna sleep anymore,” he bleated, “please.”

“Why not?”

“B’n havin’ nightmares,” d’Artagnan whispered. “We’re eat’n’ supp’r. But everythin’s poison’d. You all-- you all ge’ sick, an’ I watch-- I watch you d--”

“You been through a lot,” Porthos soothed. He brushed the bangs back from d’Artagnan’s forehead, and Athos was both pained and relieved to see the wetness of tears standing in the boy’s eyes. “‘course you’re gonna work up some bad dreams. But you gotta sleep, pup. You gotta heal.”

“A’right. Hol’ m’han’?”

“‘course,” Porthos said, simply, and wrapped both of his hands around one of d’Artagnan’s. A few tears slipped down d’Artagnan’s cheeks, and then he was sleeping once more.

The day wore on. Athos could not convince Porthos to sleep, though he did fetch some stew from the mess around six and coax him into having a bowl.

The sun had set by the time d’Artagnan woke next. But this time, to Athos’ and Porthos’ dismay, he would not drink.

“Pup,” Porthos reasoned, rubbing his arm. “You gotta drink. You need the water.”

“Don’ wanna,” d’Artagnan whined, and at another time Athos may have smiled. He did not smile now.

“How are you feeling?” he prompted instead.

“Bad,” d’Artagnan rasped. “Feel achy. Crampy. M’head hurts. An’ ‘m still--”                                  

“Still nauseous?”

Tears in his eyes again, d’Artagnan nodded.

“All right. ‘sall right. Sleep, li’l brother. Today was the worst of it.”

“’s Athos here?”

“He’s here.”

“Aramis?”

Rather than responding, Porthos crawled carefully into bed besides the boy and took him into his arms. “We’re all with you,” he cooed, as d’Artagnan blinked heavily and settled his head into the crook of Porthos’ arm. Tears streamed down his face, and Porthos shushed and murmured as he quietly began to sob.

“That’s it,” he hummed. “Cry it out, pup, you’re all right. We’re with you. You’re not alone.” D’Artagnan’s face scrunched up at the words, and he pressed closer, hiding himself fully against Porthos’ chest.

Athos fetched a clean handkerchief. Returning to the bed, he reached across their entwined bodies to tuck it into Porthos’ hand, then settled himself in a chair and rubbed Porthos’ back while Porthos in turn rubbed their littlest brother’s.

*

Steeling himself for what he would find, Aramis knocked lightly on the door to d’Artagnan’s quarters. For a moment he thought nobody would answer him. He’d enter anyway, of course, after another second or so-- but before he could, the door pulled open and Athos greeted him quietly.

“How is he?”

“He’s mostly been sleeping.” Athos gestured to the bed, where d’Artagnan was little more than a lump in Porthos’ arms.

“Can I--?”

Athos touched a hand to his shoulder. “You don’t need to ask, Aramis.”

That wasn’t what it felt like, but Aramis said nothing. Instead he crossed the room to the bed and leaned over to see them both better.

Porthos’ eyes were closed. For a moment Aramis thought that he was sleeping as well, but he opened them instantly and glanced upwards. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Last time he woke up he was a li’l upset,” Porthos explained. He tried to look down but d’Artgnan’s head was in the way. “I know you can’t see his face but I can feel ‘im breathin’, an’ it’s nice an’ steady. Think he’s droolin’ on me, too.”

Aramis heard a small noise of relief escape his own throat. “Has he been drinking?”

“Yeah. He, eh-- he brought the first cup back up but that was this mornin’. Since then he’s had five or six an’ he’s kept ‘em down.”

“And has he passed urine?”

“No,” Porthos admitted. “Not yet. Anybody say anythin’?”

“Not really. I think the king spared a moment’s annoyance but as soon as I began to give party input all was well.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’ll do the same,” Aramis replied. He wanted to be angry that Porthos did not offer to switch places, let him stay the day with d’Artagnan-- but anger was too much effort. “I’ll be back to check on him in the morning then. All right?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Aramis.”

He could have stayed, of course, could have passed the night there with the rest of them. But Aramis left.

He was, as he had been for a while now, unnecessary.

*

Porthos kept d’Artagnan in his arms as long as he could manage, uncaring that he’d lost all feeling in them long ago. Holding him seemed the only thing he could do now. The boy seemed marginally better-- his cheeks a little less pale, his breathing a little less labored-- but still the worry in Porthos was a bone-deep ache, and he knew he wouldn’t relax even slightly until d’Artagnan pulled through this in full.

Sometime after Aramis’ brief visit, he’d persuaded Athos to sleep again. Though he’d slept in the morning he was still visibly exhausted, and Porthos figured there was no use in them both being tortured in this way.

Porthos did not sleep. He held d’Artagnan tight in his arms, whispered to him, kissed his hair; told him jokes he couldn’t laugh at, shed a few tears for him now and again, when the reality of it newly overwhelmed him.

Just before dawn, though, he could ignore his bladder no longer. He slipped away as carefully as he could and relieved himself; though he tried to keep quiet, the noise roused Athos.

“Hey,” Athos mumbled, sounding barely half-awake. “’s he all righ’?”

_Yes_ seemed the incorrect answer, but the simplest one. “Yeah, he’s still sleepin’. I jus’ needed a piss. Go back t’sleep.”

Athos shook his head, pushed himself up from where he was curled up on the floor, at the foot of the bed this time. “No, no. Now I need one too. What time is it?”

“’bout five, I’d say.”

“Mm.”

The sound of Athos using the chamberpot reminded Porthos that d’Artagnan had yet to pass any urine himself, for well over a day now. He went back to the bed and checked hopefully for a wet spot, but found none.

Athos came to his side, blinking slowly; his hair was a mess, feet bare, and trousers left undone. At once Porthos wanted nothing more than to hug him. Too tired and miserable not to give into it, he pulled Athos against his chest and huffed a laugh at the little noise of surprise that he made.

“You sleep all right?” he murmured, and Athos nodded against his shoulder.

_Ask me, now_ , Porthos urged, _ask me because I need to tell someone_. But Athos, for once, missed the cue.

They pulled apart, and Athos yawned quietly. “Serge should be in the kitchen, at least, even if there’s nothing cooking yet. I’ll go and fetch us something.”

“Do up your trousers first,” Porthos replied, and was rewarded with half of a smile as Athos did so, then pulled on his boots. Porthos sat back at d’Artagnan’s side.

Athos returned soon with a pitcher of water, two apples, and yesterday’s bread. They ate in silence. Around seven Aramis came to check once more on d’Artagnan, seeming pleased that he could listen to his breathing for himself now. Once he’d left, Athos settled at d’Artagnan’s side.

“Lie down a while, Porthos,” he ordered, voice soft. “You still look exhausted.”

Finally consenting to it, Porthos flopped down to the floor at Athos’ feet, and curled up with his head in his arms.

He thought perhaps he almost slept. But before sleep could take hold, a noise roused him.

“Oh my god.”

It was a groan; it was quiet; and the voice that uttered it sounded as gravelly and raw as a stone scraping along under a carriage wheel.

Nevertheless it was utterly gorgeous.

“Hey!” Porthos cried, at the same time that Athos breathed out quietly, “ _d’Artagnan_.” Porthos scrambled up from the floor. The boy’s eyes were open, blinking a bit but no longer dazed; his voice, when he spoke, told of a mental clarity that simply hadn’t been there yesterday.

D’Artagnan was working himself into a sitting position. He paused in the attempt halfway up, propped at an awkward angle with his elbows bent beneath him. Porthos rushed to his aid.

“Don’t sit!” Athos snapped, as Porthos got him upright. “You need to rest!”

“Can’t rest sitting?” d’Artagnan asked-- then he groaned, and put his head in his hands.

“Lie back,” Athos ordered, but d’Artagnan shook his head into his palms, then leaned gratefully against Porthos as the man slipped into bed beside him.

“‘m fine. ‘m fine. Just lightheaded, that’s all.” He took his hands away. “Athos, I swear, if you make me lie back down right now I will scream.”

“Don’t normally see him stay still more’n five minutes,” Porthos teased, surprised at how even his voice sounded, though he felt fully on the verge of hysterics. “An’ now he’s stayed still since the night before last.”

“Which reminds me. There’s a very important movement I need to perform. Pretty much right now.”

Nodding his understanding, Athos dragged the champerpot over to bed; Porthos helped d’Artagnan to swing his legs about until he was sitting on the side. “This is weird,” he complained, as he pulled back the blankets to free himself from his clothes-- then groaned again. “Fuck. I’m fucking naked.” He stopped complaining only long enough to relieve himself. It was music to Porthos’ ears.

“‘m standing up next time, don’t care what you say,” d’Artagnan declared when finished, though he was panting with the effort of even these small actions. “What are you-- oh, for God’s sake, Athos.”

Athos was bent over the chamberpot with a frown.

“How’s it look?” Porthos prompted. He had located a spare shirt and smalls, and was slipped them carefully onto d’Artagnan’s body. It felt like dressing a child’s doll. D’Artagnan, for all his talk, seemed content to lie limply and let himself be seen to.

“No blood,” Athos replied. “But it’s dark.”

“But the fact that he’s passin’ it at all, that’s good. That’s good, right?”

“I’m right here,” d’Artagnan groaned. “Just so we all remember.”

“It’s good,” Athos agreed, addressing both of them now. “But you have a lot of work to do, d’Artagnan. Your body needs water. Do you understand?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and Porthos marveled privately at the effortless way in which Athos had made this an order and a challenge-- not a chore.

Fighting illness was the bravest fight of all. Athos knew that, Porthos knew that, and if d’Artagnan ever showed signs of not believing this, then they would remind him.

And he took it stoically, for an hour or two.

Then the complaints began again, half-hearted at first, but with increasing creativity and vigor. He was bored. He was tired. He _wasn’t_ tired. He was _bored_. His legs were cramping. His mouth tasted funny.

And this, Porthos’ personal favorite:

“I feel-- sloshy.”

“Sloshy?”

“ _Sloshy_. Damn water is _sloshing_ inside of me. Can I stop drinking now?”

“You can stop drinking when you start passing as much urine as you normally do.”

“Which may be be a while, given how much you like t’piss.”

D’Artagnan raised his head at that. “What, do I piss a lot?”

Both men nodded, and Porthos laughed. “Didn’t you ever realize? You’re a fourth of us, and you’re half of our piss stops.”

“I don’t-- do I-- piss more than usual?”

Porthos and Athos shared a smile, not so much at d’Artagnan’s frown of confusion as his lively, unhindered speech, his increasingly healthy complexion. His voice was still raspy and raw, but he sounded like _d’Artagnan_.

“Perhaps we could supplement the water with some porridge?” Athos suggested, and d’Artagnan groaned in pleasure.

“God, anything but water. Please.”

But once Athos had actually fetched some from Serge, once the bowl of boiled grains was actually in his lap, d’Artagnan stared down at it anxiously.

“I, eh--” he began, glancing up at them. “I’m not sure I’ll--”

“Go slow,” Athos advised. “Have a bite and give it a minute. If all is well, have another.”

D’Artagnan nodded, scooped up a small spoonful and lifted it to his mouth-- then put it back down. He hung his head, hair disguising his features.

Porthos settled calmly beside him. “Tell me.”

“I don’t want to vomit again.”

“You feelin’ sick?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“My stomach hurts,” d’Artagnan explained, “but I’m _honestly_ not sure if I’m nauseous or hungry or just-- y’know.”

“Upset?”

D’Artagnan shrugged, cheeks coloring. “If I have to vomit one more time, I think I’ll literally go mad.”

“Listen,” Porthos began. “This ain’t the same, but, you know what I’ve been goin’ through, with sleepin’. Yeah? That first time, the first thing goes wrong, it’s like a seed. Seed gets planted and now it’s growin’, no matter what you do. But you’re the one holdin’ the waterin’ can. I worked meself up so much, I kept drenchin’ that seed good and proper. Weren’t for you, pup, I’d have a fuckin’ tree by now. As it is I’ve got a nice spiny shrub.”

D’Artagnan chuckled quietly. “You have an _insomnia shrub_.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Porthos scolded. “‘m tryin’ my best here. ‘cause listen, I can take a few sleepless nights. That’s somethin’ I can live through. But the seed that’s about to root here-- not eatin’?-- that’s somethin’ else. Don’t water that, d’Artagnan. I swear, if you throw up, we’ll handle it. We’ll clean you up an’ wait it out another few hours, an’ try again. But you can’t-- you can’t not eat, pup. ‘cause then you won’t get better, an’ I-- I fuckin’ need you t’get better. An’ so does he.” Athos inclined his head in greeting when d’Artagnan looked over at him. “An’ so do you,” Porthos concluded.

D’Artagnan sighed and picked up his spoon again. “If you all really wanted to tempt me, you could’ve scared up some _foie gras_.”

“You’re back in Paris, pup, an’ that don’t flow like water nowhere but Gascony. But I think I could find you some raspberry cookies, ‘f you’d accept those instead.”

D’Artagnan nodded, and took an obedient bite of his porridge.

Porthos grinned, and stood. “I’ll tell the baker--”

“Wait!” D’Artagnan swallowed quickly, and dropped his spoon. “You don’t have to go now,” he continued, a bit more calmly. “That is, I’d like you to stay. Both of you to stay. Just a little while longer.”

Hands raised appeasingly, Porthos settled back down. “‘f you can wait on the cookies, I can stay right here.”

D’Artagnan nodded; placated, he retrieved his spoon and took another few bites as Porthos watched out of the corner of his eye. When the porridge was half eaten, he set the bowl aside.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked.

“All right. It’s staying down. I just think I’d be more comfortable waiting a little while before I eat the rest.”

“That’s fine,” Athos agreed. He came to the bed, took the bowl, and carried it back to the table.

“You wanna try t’sleep some more?” Porthos asked, and chuckled when d’Artagnan made a face. “Awright, well, you ain’t leavin’ this bed today for nothin’ save the pot. So whaddya wanna do?”

“Actually, I’ll have the pot again, if it’s all right by you. Oh God, can you please not _grin_ about it? And I’m standing this time.”

“Suit yourself.” The chamberpot had been emptied and was back by the bed; with a look of determination, d’Artagnan climbed shakily to his feet without assistance and made use of it.

He sank back into bed with a happy groan. But the groan turned to one of dismay as Porthos peered into the chamberpot as Athos had done before.

“Please, please, _please_ stop examining my piss. Please stop.”

“Listen, pup,” Porthos growled. “Me an’ your bodily fluids have been real well acquainted lately. Same with Athos. Time for modesty’s long passed.”

“Well, did I do well?” d’Artagnan asked, voice caught halfway between a joke and a terrible gravity.

Porthos chuckled. “Yeah. You’re all right. You’ll be back on your feet in no time, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan nodded and didn’t speak, looking suddenly tired again-- perhaps exhausted by sheer relief. Porthos climbed in to the bed beside him once again. D’Artagnan grunted an acknowledgment, then hauled himself upright and arranged himself comfortably against his chest; his weakened body settled heavily into the safety of Porthos’ arms. For a long moment, they simply sat this way. Then d’Artagnan let out a massive, grateful sigh and shimmied up against Porthos, who chuckled. “You’re all right,” Porthos said again. D’Artagnan reached up and patted his head in acknowledgment.

Tension bled from Porthos. He closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks as the shared warmth between their bodies grew and soothed them like a blanket. D’Artagnan was all right.

D’Artagnan was all right.

“Athos,” the boy called; the noise roused Porthos from his haze, but he smiled to hear it.

“Yes.” Athos’ voice was soft.

“C’mere. Don’t think I can’t see you being gloomy over there.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was being gloomy.”

“Come _here_.”

With a little sigh, Athos crossed the room and settled primly at d’Artagnan’s other side. “Here I am.”

“Here you are.” And d’Artagnan tugged at Athos’ arm, hard, until Athos had no choice but to tumble forward, landing with his head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

The boy hugged him close. “For a while there you’d worked up the nerve to say when you needed one,” he scolded.

Porthos was not really expecting a reply and so was surprised when Athos murmured, “understand that I do not always realize it myself.”

In the end they were nothing more than a pile on the mattress. D’Artagnan was squished between Athos and Porthos, with half-lidded eyes and a wide, easy smile on his mouth.

“Lord, look a’that smug li’l face,” Porthos chuckled. “Pup’s right pleased with ‘imself, Athos.”

“I’m very pleased with myself,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I worked you over months ago, Porthos, but look. Athos is hugging me and I didn’t even need to beg.”

“Yes, you only needed to physically drag me here.”

“And I suppose I also _physically dragged_ your poor defenseless arms around my waist?”

Athos huffed disdainfully, and wriggled closer.

Porthos chuckled, ran a hand through d’Artagnan’s hair. “Look a’us,” he sighed. “Look at us.”

“We’re a band of fierce warriors, so I don’t know what you’re laughing about.”

“I know. That’s exactly what I was thinkin’. An’ I was thinkin’--”

“What?”

“Think we’re gonna be all right.”

D’Artagnan grinned, as Athos sighed peacefully.

“We’re gonna be all right,” Porthos said again.


	9. Chapter 9

It had felt, in the moment, that everything would be all right. But in bed that night, unable to sleep once again, Porthos doubted the words he’d offered so confidently. He hadn’t slept since before d’Artagnan’s illness; two fully sleepless nights had passed since then, and a third seemed imminent. He wondered if Athos had realized. They’d all spent the last few days together with essentially no time apart, and Athos knew he hadn’t slept the first night, or into the second day. But the second night, after the vomiting had stopped, they hadn’t set a watch. He wasn’t sure if Athos knew that he hadn’t slept then either, that he’d lain awake with d’Artagnan’s body cradled tight to his chest and watched on the floor the chasing shadows of sunset, moonrise, moonset, sunrise.

He was tired. Maybe more tired than he’d ever been. Ruddy damn exhausted-- and so on edge that he could barely coax himself to close his eyes, let alone close down his mind.

A shaking had begun in his hands. It was the kind of tremor that affected the very old and the very ill, and apparently now the chronically sleepless. In the light from the window he stared at his jittery fingers.

It hadn’t even been a bad day-- in the morning there had been nothing but sheer relief at d’Artagnan’s relative wellness, and after that things had been quiet and easy. They’d sat a while together, piled into the bed. Ostensibly it had been for d’Artagnan’s sake, to comfort him and soothe his anxious nerves, but Porthos had taken great solace from it as well. After that d’Artagnan had finished his porridge. They’d chatted a while, about nothing of importance, then Athos had been talked into reading aloud to them from a book d’Artagnan had borrowed but never opened. As the sun set, they’d gotten a bowl of thin mushroom soup into the boy’s stomach. Then there had been a discussion of sleeping arrangements, that had ended with the decision that d’Artagnan would sleep on his own that night, as long as he resumed drinking water the moment he woke.

And that had been that. The day had been calm, and Porthos had spent it either sitting at Athos’ side or curled up at d’Artagnan’s, talking and smiling and just catching his breath.

So why was he so tense? Why did his heart pound restlessly, hands tremble, eyes pop open the moment he dare to close them?

Why couldn’t he _sleep_?

For all that he had urged himself to prepare for this, it was still with a faint sense of disbelief and resentment that Porthos rose the next morning, with three fully sleepless nights tucked primly under his belt. Perhaps this was it, now. Perhaps he’d simply become a man who did not sleep anymore, if such a thing were even possible. Was it possible? Was it the thing that would finally end him?

Trying to shake these thoughts from his mind, Porthos went by d’Artagnan’s quarters before reporting; he was worried for a moment when he found the door wide open, but heartened to see d’Artagnan sitting at his table, doing up his boots.

“Expectin’ a visitor ain’t used to doors?” Porthos teased, inviting himself in. D’Artagnan smiled, moving onto the other foot.

“Hey.” Even in that one short word, Porthos could hear the rasp of a still-aching throat. “Yeah, things were smelling a bit stale. Thought some fresh air might help.”

It was true; after days spent cooped up in d’Artagnan’s room, Porthos had stopped noticing the odor of sweat and sickness, but he caught it again now. “Should get yourself some lavender.”

“Mm,” d’Artagnan hummed. “At least I don’t have to stay here today.”

“An’ who said you was reportin’?”

“I did.” D’Artagnan stood. “I’m actually a grown man, Porthos, though you’re all fond of forgetting that. I’m well enough to report, and I’ve decided to report.”

In truth Porthos had expected this, and had no real reason to argue in any case; d’Artagnan was still pale, his eyes still ringed with purple, but he spoke with full coherence and moved without shaking-- which was honestly more than Porthos could say for himself this morning.

Rather than express this, Porthos snorted. “You’re a grown man who let his friends feed ‘im an’ read ‘im a bedtime story yesterday.”

“As though you minded. If I recall correctly, you were just as happy as I was to put your head down and listen to Athos read. I thought you’d fallen asleep at one point.”

“Thought wrong,” Porthos replied, trying not to let the flash of pain he felt reach his expression. He redirected. “Sure you’re ready? Your stomach--?”

“Feels terrible,” d’Artagnan replied, with a shrug. “But _terrible_ is actually an improvement, and I’ve kept down everything I ate yesterday, and I’m-- I’m _so_ bored! Porthos, I’m _so_ bored.”

Porthos managed to chuckle at that. “Y’know you’ll just get inventory or somethin’. Won’t be much more excitin’ ‘n this.”

“Anything would be more exciting than staring at these four damn walls again.”

“You had us to stare at too!”

D’Artagnan grinned, came to Porthos’ side, and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “You’re right,” he murmured. “I did.” Then he took his hand away and, with much less gravity in his voice, declared, “still you can’t blame me wanting to, I dunno, see the fucking world again. The stables, at least.”

“Well if you handle the stables well, I might even let you ‘round t’the mess,” Porthos teased, and together they stepped out of d’Artagnan’s apartment, closing the door behind them.

Porthos eyed the boy as they made their way through the garrison. His illness barely seemed to have slowed him at all-- although, Porthos acknowledged, if he was to use himself as comparison he had to remember that he was dragging today like he’d possibly never dragged before. D’Artagnan had not seen the world yet, but he’d seen the stables at least. Maybe they could go back now, maybe they could take one more day; maybe this time, with his friend beside him, he would finally get some sleep.

But no, the boy was determined. Porthos resigned himself to the day, sure that he’d been more exhausted at some point in his life, but not entirely sure when.

They caught sight of Treville as they rounded the corner to the training yard. The captain, in turn, eyed them from head-to-toe as he came to stand before them.

“D’Artagnan,” Treville greeted. D’Artagnan nodded, grinning.

“Captain.”

“You look like hell. And you sound twice as bad.”

“Ten times better’n he was yesterday,” Porthos countered. “An’ yesterday was ten times better’n the day before.”

“Stomach, you said?” Treville prompted. “Are you eating now?”

“Yessir. Maybe not normally but well enough.”

“Well, it’s light duty for you today. But not for you,” the captain added, nodding to Porthos. “Any other musketeer takes ill and I send him to the matrons. I don’t give his friends leave to play nursemaid.”

Porthos mustered his own smile, feeling utterly unrepentant. “He’s our pup.”

“I’m well aware.” Treville frowned lightly. “Are you coming down with it now, Porthos? You’re looking a bit peaky yourself.”

Damn. He must have looked like absolute shit if others were beginning to notice-- then again, the captain knew him well. “’m fine,” Porthos replied, trying to sound convincing. “Just glad we got ‘im back.”

And if the statement sounded a bit too emotional to Treville, who believed d’Artagnan laid up with a common illness, he gave no indication. D’Artagnan touched a hand to Porthos’ shoulder once more. Drawing what strength he could from it, Porthos nodded at the boy, and together they started again for the yard--

And ran directly into Aramis.

Porthos blanked. Came face-to-face with a man he’d known for seven years, a man he’d laughed and fought and wept with, a man who’d seen him at his best and his worst and absolutely every possible stop along the way.

And blanked.

“Porthos, I’ll meet you there, yeah?” D’Artagnan’s voice was the smallest bit shaky, but Porthos did not register anything then but the need to turn tail and flee.

*

Aramis’ heart splintered a little further to see Porthos avoid him in this way, but for once he could spare it only a little thought. D’Artagnan was standing before him. Pale and shivery-looking, with cheekbones sharper than they’d been a few days ago-- but standing there, upright and alert and alive.

And maybe just a little bit angry, too.

“Where have you been?” d’Artagnan asked. And then he didn’t sound angry at all, only hurt-trying-to-sound-angry, only disappointed and tired and _raspy_ as an old priest in winter. “I-- wanted you with me.”

The next thing Aramis knew he had flung his arms around d’Artagnan’s neck; face buried in the boy’s hair, he stammered out apologies, trembling head-to-toe with sheer emotion. He was sorry for not being there. And more than that, _Christ_ , a thousand times over from that he was sorry that any of this happened, sorry he ever tried to stick his damn nose in, sorry he ever even thought of the antimonial cup in the first place, sorry--

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan murmured, after a minute or so. Then, a bit more loudly, “for God’s sake, Aramis, calm down.” 

Aramis mastered himself, with effort, and pulled away.

There was not even a hint of anger left in d’Artagnan’s eyes; instead he looked perplexed and a little amused. “We all right now?” he asked, voice soothing despite its hoarseness.

“No.” Aramis’ hands had not stopped shaking. “You could have died.”

“Then allow me to remind you that I _didn’t_.” D’Artagnan smiled. “Look at me, I’m fine.”

Aramis couldn’t help himself. “You look awful. You’re pale as parchment.”

“I’ve felt better,” d’Artagnan admitted. “But I’m getting there, really.”

“I might’ve killed you.”

That earned him a funny look. “My own stupidity might have killed me, Aramis,” he said, with a little catch in his voice. “None of this was your fault. If I’d only told you what I was doing, it would have been just like last time, and we wouldn’t’ve gone through any of this. Aramis, this was not your fault.”

Aramis’ stomach clenched. “That’s not what Porthos said.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he say something to you?”

The boy did not remember-- and why should he? He had been otherwise occupied at the time, retching his guts inside-out. 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan prompted, when apparently he took too long. “Do you think they blame you? Is that why you stayed away?”

There was a lump in Aramis’ throat the size of the Louvre, and though he knew he shouldn’t answer, he did. 

“They do blame me. Porthos does, at any rate.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so. Rather colorfully.”

“I’ll talk to him--”

“No!” Aramis cried. “No. I’m not eight and you’re not a school marm. I’ll talk to him.”

“All right. Hey.” D’Artagnan pulled him into another hug, and Aramis felt a massive sigh swell up in his lungs and gust out from his nose and mouth. “I don’t blame you. All right? I need you to know that. I don’t blame you.”

It was the first time in a long time that the ache inside of Aramis eased a bit, rather than just gripping him tighter and tighter. He pressed his face into d’Artagnan’s hair. They stood there a long while, and whether d’Artagnan was taking comfort from it as well or was merely humoring him, Aramis did not know, or honestly care. He needed this more than he’d even realized. For over two days now he had seen nothing before him but the image of the blood spurting from between d’Artagnan’s lips, the rage and despair in Porthos’ eyes as he’d cradled the boy, pieta-like, and howled words that Aramis could find no refuge from:

_You may have killed him._

A warm hand rubbed his back when he sniffled, bringing Aramis back to himself; d’Artagnan was still badly under the weather, and didn’t need to be saddled with anybody else’s shit right now. Aramis wiped his eyes and forced himself to pull away again.

D’Artagnan let him, but kept him close, holding his elbow while he took a few deep breaths.

“All right,” d’Artagnan said at last. “Breakfast?”

“I think I ought to--”

“Come sit with us,” d’Artagnan insisted. “I want all four of us to sit together. It would make me feel better,” he added, with a little wheedle to his voice that told Aramis just how calculated this statement was. How could he say no to that?

He nodded his consent and trailed d’Artagnan to the table. 

*

Well aware of that all eyes would be eyes on him, d’Artagnan loaded his plate before settling at the table. Eating still made him nervous but he knew that he had to. Besides, this was the first time in days that all four of them were together, and despite apparent tensions he was selfishly quite glad, and determined to enjoy it. Not that there was much conversation. Really the four of them just sat silently, but he took comfort from their collective presence nevertheless as he forced himself to turn attention to his plate.

It was as though his stomach had shrunk in his illness. He told himself sternly that he needed to eat what he had taken, but after only an egg and a handful of blackberries he felt uncomfortably full. He glanced around to see if he had noticed. Aramis seemed less concerned with d’Artagnan’s fast-breaking and more concerned with looking in absolutely any direction but Porthos’; Athos, in turn, was watching Aramis do this. And Porthos--

Porthos’ eyes were closed, his breathing steady, his mouth open and slightly slack.

D’Artagnan winced. This had happened after Aramis’ funeral too; when Porthos went more than one night without sleeping, he began to fall asleep for a few minutes here and there, never enough to help but enough to scare d’Artagnan about the possibility of this happening on horseback, or at swordpoint. More frightening still was the fact that Porthos didn’t seem to realize. After a minute or two his entire body would jolt, and he would blink his eyes open and stare wordlessly for a moment, as though he’d forgotten the existence of the world altogether.

So-- Porthos wasn’t sleeping again. And d’Artagnan, wrapped up in his own private chaos, had failed to notice.

Their talk would have to wait now, he knew. Although Aramis had told him that it was unnecessary, he was hardly willing to let his own foolishness be used as fodder in an argument between two of his closest friends. Porthos needed to know that d’Artagnan himself deserved the blame. But a tired Porthos was an overemotional Porthos, and an overemotional Porthos was not an easy man to convince of anything, and so it would have to wait a little longer, until he’d had a good night’s sleep.

D’Artagnan would ensure that he got one.

Porthos gasped himself back awake before anybody could intervene; Athos and Aramis both looked up at the noise, but neither said anything. “We should go,” Athos announced. “D’Artagnan, do look after yourself. We’ll return as promptly as is possible.”

D’Artagnan nodded and watched them leave. He only hoped that Athos and Aramis had the sense to keep an eye on Porthos, get him back safely that night. Then d’Artagnan could take it from there.

Before long the captain summoned him to his office, showed him the paperwork that needed sorting, and walked him briefly through how to do it. Then he left. D’Artagnan shoved the papers around absently for a moment, then pushed to his feet and began to pace.

Movement, particularly in circles, was perhaps a bad idea. The room spun, and for one unpleasant moment d’Artagnan was sure that breakfast was going to burst out of him-- though he wasn’t sure where from. He went stock still, screwed his eyes shut, and waited. But then there was a settling in his guts, so palpable that he let himself sigh with relief.

He should have stayed in bed. He should have kept Porthos with him. They could be curled up under the blankets now, and Porthos wouldn’t be falling off of his horse on his way to the palace and d’Artagnan wouldn’t be contemplating vomiting all over the captain’s desk while he also shat himself for good measure.

D’Artagnan sank back into the chair. When had everything gotten so complicated?

More importantly, when was everything going to get better?

*

It was the last day before the king’s party, and the Louvre was abustle with last-minute preparations.

Porthos registered near-nothing that day, so sleep-starved by now that he began to lose entire chunks of time from his memory. To his mind the day went something like this: they arrived. Louis greeted Athos like a long-lost friend. Suddenly it was lunchtime, and one of the new women of the court was flirting with Aramis. Then it was two o’clock, somehow. And apparently in the interim he had single-handedly moved a half dozen picnic tables, according to Athos.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He was so fucking tired that the world had stopped having an up and a down. So fucking tired he was gasping randomly, without meaning to, starving for air. So fucking tired that actual fucking tears came to his eyes when Athos asked if he was all right, which probably made it a lot less convincing when he insisted that he was fine, only tired.

 _Only_ tired.

At least losing time made the day pass more quickly, he noted, and shared a helpless laugh with himself. Though admittedly the time he spent aware felt twice as long. Nevertheless he eventually found himself back at the garrison, head in his hands, dinner growing cold before him.

Somebody settled beside him. “Heya, pup,” he rasped, recognizing his friend even without looking.

“Hey, Porthos.”

D’Artagnan rested his head against Porthos’ shoulder; Porthos still did not look, but at the edge of his vision he could see the boy was curled in on himself a little. “Awright?” he whispered, not wanting to draw attention.

“‘m fine,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Stomach just feels funny.”

“Took a proper beatin’.” He forced himself to rouse. “Gonna take a while for it to feel well again.”

D’Artagnan nodded against his shoulder, and sighed.

“You nauseous?”

“No, not really.”

“You needa--?”

“No,” d’Artagnan said again, with a huff of embarrassed laughter. “I dunno. Just achy. Feels better when I sit still.”

“Captain knows you were sick. He’d let you have another day a’light duty, if you needed.”

“The party starts tomorrow. I won’t laze around if there’s real work to be done. Even if that work’s just watching a bunch of nobles shoot rabbits.”

“But you seem worse than you did this mornin’. Think you pushed yourself too hard.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “‘m fine. Just wanna sit here a minute.”

“Awright, awright. Suite yourself. If anyone uninvited shows up, we’ll wave you around. Tell ‘em you’ve had the plague an’ you’ll rub up on ‘em if they don’t leave.”

“It’s a plan,” d’Artagnan agreed, and latched a fist onto Porthos’ jacket.

D’Artagnan’s weight was so warm, so familiar, that when the meal was ended it was d’Artagnan who had to rouse Porthos.

“Hey,” he muttered, before Porthos could stand. “Would it help to sleep in my quarters?”

Would it have before? Yes. Would it now, when those quarters were the same ones in which he’d nearly watched his friend die?

“Nah,” Porthos muttered. “Thanks, though.”

*

The day of the king’s party had arrived at last, and though Aramis had never been the most enthusiastic supporter, now that it was here he felt even less fondly towards it. D’Artagnan was pale as a ghost. Porthos hardly looked better, with dark circles under his eyes deep enough to be bruises.

Aramis had already tried, and failed horribly, to help d’Artagnan. By rights he probably should have taken a vow against ever trying to help anybody again, and yet-- Porthos was so miserable. Visibly, _tangibly_ miserable. And this was due, Aramis knew, at least in part to the tension between the two of them. And so how could he not try to fix it-- for both their sakes?

The king and his brother had tired of hunting quickly, and before long they were lounging under the tent in the field. Porthos was posted at the treeline. Aramis was meant to be watching the tent itself, but so were two other musketeers a dozen Red Guards, so he felt no guilt as he slipped away.

Porthos was standing with his shoulder against a thick tree. He still favored his right leg, Aramis noted, and was sagged halfway against the tree with his left hip popped way out.

“I think I’d take a parade over this as well,” Aramis muttered, by way of greeting. “I think I might take stable mucking over this.”

Porthos snorted appreciatively, but said nothing. Aramis glanced away for a moment; when he looked back, Porthos’ eyes had slipped shut.

“Porthos,” he whispered. The man blinked awake, then sighed, withholding none of the unhappiness from the noise of it.

“What can I do?” Aramis begged. “Please, Porthos. What can I do to help?”

Porthos shrugged. “Nothin’ you can do.”

“I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.” Aramis leaned a little closer; Porthos did not react. “We need to fix things between us. Whatever it takes we need to get rid of this-- this infection between us. I-- I know you want to. Just as I do. At your birthday-- you told me you missed me. And there are times it almost seems normal again. Doesn’t it?”

He’d looked away, but he looked back now.

Porthos was shaking. His eyes swam with tears.

“Christ,” Aramis breathed. “Porthos-- _mon cher ami_ \-- what is it?” Porthos had never been the most stoic of men, but weeping here, on duty, within sight of the king--

“’snothin’. Jus’ tired.”

“I know it’s more than that. I know it’s down to what’s happened between us. I feel it too, Porthos, I do-- I think it’s killing me, honestly.”

Porthos sniffed and dragged a gloved hand under his nose. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“You couldn’t last time, either,” Aramis noted, feeling sorrier for himself than he knew he should.

“So stop pushin’ me,” Porthos snapped. “Just-- jus’ leave me be, for God’s sake, Aramis.” His breathing had grown ragged, as though he couldn’t catch his breath.

“I--”

“Please, Ar,” Porthos whimpered. “’m barely keepin’ it together as it is. Please don’t make me do this now.”

Aramis nodded. “All right. All right, Porthos.”

*

Porthos didn’t know how he made it through the day. He didn’t _remember_ making it through the day. The next thing he knew the sun was gone and they were back in the stables.

Aramis left. Athos left. The room seemed too small. He was still on his horse.

D’Artagnan was there; he could see him in the corner. Porthos slipped from the saddle and tried to go to his side. He overbalanced in the attempt. His ankles wobbled above his feet, and then he was sitting.

“Porthos?”

Tears blurred his eyes, so beyond his control that he wanted to laugh. They felt cool on his cheeks, thick and clean as they spilled.

“Hey, whoa. Porthos.” D’Artagnan was kneeling between his legs, wiping the tears with a steady hand. “What’s wrong?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes were kind and dark. Porthos sniffled as his nose began to run.

“Porthos, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Both hands were on his face now, cradling it from either side; he sagged forward, let d’Artagnan brace the weight of his head.

“‘m so tired,” he whispered, and shivered as more tears dripped onto the hay.

“What’s the last time you slept?”

His chin buckled, and a ragged sob escaped him; d’Artagnan’s thumbs brushed gently over his cheekbones.

“What’s the last time you slept, Porthos?”

“Don’ ‘memb’r.”

“Well, was it before I got sick, or was it since then?”

“‘fore.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan whispered. “You haven’t slept in five days?”

Five days did sound like a lot, didn’t it?

“‘m really tired,” he sobbed; d’Artagnan pulled him close to his chest and Porthos fell against him, out of tears but bawling dryly into his shoulder.

“Come on, Porthos. Come on, _mon ami_.” And then they were struggling upright, Porthos leaning against d’Artagnan, sobbing still. “We’re just going to my quarters. It’s just ‘round the other side. Can you do that for me?” Porthos shook his head, but felt his feet moving anyway, carrying him somewhere, carrying him wherever d’Artagnan was leading. Then his feet were still. He sat on a mattress, in a dim, quiet room. His boots were gone. D’Artagnan’s hands were gone too, and without them Porthos felt the grief swell up in him again, and he took a breath to call out for him--

“Swallow this.” Then d’Artagnan’s fingers were at his lips, and he opened his mouth, tasted a bitter powder and then a stream of warm, sweet wine.

“I’ve given you some medicine,” d’Artagnan told him. “It’s going to make you sleep, no matter what. You don’t have to worry, because the medicine doesn’t give you a choice. You’re going to sleep, Porthos. It won’t be long now.”

He was lying down now. His legs twitched fretfully on the mattress. D’Artagnan’s hand was at his face again, and his body was beside Porthos’ own, warm and still. Porthos gasped for air, retching at the lack of it. Then d’Artagnan pressed a hand against his chest, and whispered, and the words didn’t sound French, didn’t sound like any tongue at all, but they did sound nice, they sounded calm, they sounded safe--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been floored by the absolute avalanche of comments on the last few chapters! In a stressful world a new comment genuinely makes my day. Thank you, _thank you_ to all those who comment/leave kudos, and I hope you all are continuing to enjoy! D'Art's turn is over for now... time to torture Porthos.


	10. Chapter 10

A knock at the door roused d’Artagnan, and there was a wild moment of trying to exit the bed as gently as possible, but also as quickly as possible. He managed it without waking Porthos. He flung the door open with a finger already pressed to his lips; to their credit, Aramis and Athos stayed quiet as they saw this.

“Is Porthos all right?” Athos whispered, peering into the room. D’Artagnan squinted into the sunlight that streamed through the door from behind his friends.

“He’s fine. He’s-- listen, he’s not reporting today, and I’m going to stay with him.”

“What’s wrong?” Aramis demanded. He was a little louder than Athos had been, and d’Artagnan glanced over his shoulder worriedly. But Porthos slept on.

“Look, it’s Porthos’ place to tell you,” he replied, turning back to the two of them. “And I’m sure he will. For now, take my word for it that he isn’t in danger, and there’s nothing that needs to be done. He needs some rest, is all. Athos, I swear it,” he added, because Athos looked ready to argue. “He’s all right. And I’m staying with him.”

The hurt in Aramis’ eyes was unmistakeable, but he schooled it as Athos lay a hand on his shoulder. “What should we tell the captain?” he prompted, squinting through the dimness of the room towards d’Artagnan’s bed.

“Tell him he’s sick. Tell him his stomach’s unwell, as mine was. Or tell him he’s overworked his ankle. Just-- cover for us, all right? He really needs a day to rest.”

“All right,” Aramis sighed, as Athos nodded. D’Artagnan offered them both a grateful smile and shut the door quietly after they’d turned and left. Eyes readjusting to the darkness, he scanned Porthos’ still body. He was lying on his side, arms loose against his belly; his legs were tucked slightly upwards.

Despite the noise and light he was out completely. Even in his deepest sleep, he tended to shift and sigh a bit, but this time there had been none of that. He must have been exhausted-- he must have been _beyond_ exhausted.

D’Artagnan had slept with him through the night; at dawn he’d woken and quietly slipped from the bed to make use of the chamberpot and to draw the curtains more carefully across the window. Then he’d crawled back into bed until the knock had roused him.

It had to be well after seven now, if Athos and Aramis had had time to report, notice them missing, decide they were late enough to cause concern, and come by to check on them. They’d fallen asleep probably around eleven last night. Eight hours of sleep seemed plenty for a musketeer on an average night-- seemed fairly generous, in fact-- but Porthos had days to make up for, so d’Artagnan was content to see him sleep another hour or so at least.

Perhaps he’d even join him again, d’Artagnan thought. But before he could get back into bed, there was a timid tap at the door, and a voice whispered his name. Glancing at Porthos, d’Artagnan went to answer it.

Aramis stood, alone this time, balancing a bowl of porridge in one hand and his hat in the other; peering inside the hat, d’Artagnan found it full of fruit and cloth-wrapped cheese. “Thanks,” d’Artagnan began, at the same time Aramis frowned and asked, “what’s really wrong?”

“Hey,” d’Artagnan soothed, and reached out to pat Aramis’ arm; then he moved to the side so Aramis could see Porthos, safe in bed. “It’s all right, really. Everything’s fine. If it were urgent I’d tell you now, you know I would. Only it isn’t, and he needs to tell you himself, I think.”

“But _will_ he tell me?”

“He’ll tell you, Aramis. Only let him sleep for now. He’s all right, look at him.”

Aramis nodded, pacified if not satisfied. The two of them worked a moment to transfer all the food from Aramis’ arms to d’Artagnan’s own, then bid each other farewell once again. Once Aramis had gone, d’Artagnan set everything down at the table.

While he was doing so, his stomach gave an almighty growl; he startled, feel almost foolishly surprised. But it was surprising-- he was _hungry_. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t had a stomachache, and yesterday by midday exertion had worn him so raw that he was fearful to bend at the waist lest he faint or be sick.

But now-- he was ravenous. D’Artagnan settled at the table and seized the porridge, reasoning that he’d share the rest but that this needed to be eaten before it cooled. He worked through it quickly. Relief settled over him, warm and thick like a blanket, and he lay back down next to Porthos to sleep a bit more. Porthos was breathing slowly, evenly, lost to the world. D’Artagnan wrapped both hands around one of his, and closed his eyes.

He dozed comfortably. The sun grew brighter around the edges of the curtains, and he was half-aware of the bells that marked the slipping away of the morning. At last, around ten, D’Artagnan decided he could sleep no longer. He opened his eyes to find Porthos still slumped exactly as he’d been hours before, and all at once needed to reach out and feel Porthos’ breath moving over his own fingers, just to satisfy himself that his friend was only sleeping.

Christ, why was he surprised? Porthos had not slept for five days-- it seemed a simple enough thing to say, but when d’Artagnan really thought about it he felt nearly drowned beneath the weight of it. Five days-- at least in part because of d’Artagnan’s own troubles. It seemed he was not the only one physically hurting from the worry he felt for his brothers, he thought, and pressed a kiss to Porthos’ brow before rising.

D’Artagnan ate an apple. He tidied up his quarters, then set his and Porthos’ boots up side-by-side, neatly against the wall. He adjusted the curtains and lit a candle. Then he read for a bit, before beginning instead to carve, whittling a small wooden horse that he’d been at turns working on and neglecting for weeks now.

In the end, Porthos slept to nearly one in the afternoon.

D’Artagnan was reading again, and looked up when he heard a grunt from the bed; Porthos stirred, flopped over onto his stomach, and nuzzled against the pillow, still mostly asleep.

“Afternoon, lazy bones,” d’Artagnan called.

Porthos shot awake.

His eyes were wide, twitching to and fro as he fought to understand his surroundings. “Y’re awright? ‘s Aramis-- Athos-- awright?” His chest was heaving, head bobbing in time with his overlarge breaths.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said, startled. “We’re fine. You slept, _mon ami_. You were just asleep. You’re groggy now but you’ll come out of it.”

But Porthos showed no signs of coming out of it anytime soon; seeing no better recourse, d’Artagnan went to his side and wrapped both arms around him.

It didn’t happen for a moment. But before too long, Porthos sagged into the security of the embrace, breath hitching still but coming much more slowly now. D’Artagnan shushed him gently, rocking him in a steady rhythm. He should have suspected that one decent sleep, however long, would not have been enough to restore Porthos entirely. Nevertheless he’d never have predicted this confusion, this near-panicky reaction. D’Artagnan hugged him tighter as Porthos shivered against him, letting out a little moan-- though of what emotion, d’Artagnan could not say.

They sat thus a while longer, rocking gently. Then, without lifting his head, Porthos cleared his throat. “C’n you-- stay still, please?” he rasped. “’m a li’l queasy.”

D’Artagnan barked out a laugh and stopped rocking, though he didn’t let go.

“Wha’ happened?” Porthos asked, still lying heavily against d’Artagnan. He sounded muzzy, unsure of himself, but calmer than he’d sounded the night before, at any rate.

“You slept,” d’Artagnan replied, rubbing slowly up and down his back now. “You were too tired to walk to your apartment, so I brought you here, and you’ve been asleep since eleven last night. It’s nearly one in the afternoon now.”

He was not-- _not_ \-- prepared for the next question.

“How?”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I gave you some valerian root. I honestly have no idea what it balances or doesn’t balance, I just know it makes you calm.”

Porthos sat back at last, heaving himself slowly out of d’Artagnan’s arms, moving as though he ached terribly. “I didn’t think I could anymore,” he admitted, not looking up. “Christ, it--”

“It’s gotten worse. I know, _mon ami_.”

Porthos nodded miserably. D’Artagnan reached over and mussed his hair, feeling fairly awful in his own right.

“Some fresh air will make you feel better,” he chirped, feigning brightness. “Shall we?”

“Why is your solution always walkin’?”

“Why is your solution always going to a bakery?”

Porthos smirked. “Ain’t always. Sometimes it’s fightin’.”

“All right, sometimes mine’s fighting too. So would you rather fight or walk?”

“Walk-- to a bakery?”

“If you like.”

The smirk faded into a smile, which faded into something smaller and sadder than that. “’m kiddin’. ‘m really not feelin’ so great, pup.”

D’Artagnan’s hand lingered still on Porthos’ head; now he slid it down to his neck and squeezed. “Porthos, you just stayed awake for five days and then slept for over half a day. Your body has no idea what’s going on and you’ll feel better if you move around. C’mon.”

“Gimme a minute,” Porthos replied, folding in on himself. “’ve you seen the others?”

“They’re all right. They came by to check on you this morning, but I told them you were fine. They’ll expect the full story later, of course.”

“Mm.”

“And they sent word to the captain that your stomach’s unwell. Said you’re sick like I was.”

“So whadda we say when he sees us strollin’ through Paris?”

“The truth? You thought it’d make you feel better? Look, I’m sure he’ll see through it anyway. Hell, I’m sure he saw through it with me, too.”

“You _were_ sick.”

“I was stupid.”

“Mm.”

“So we’ll head straight out of Paris. Out to the north again.”

“Jus’ like old times.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan murmured.

“I dunno how much longer I can do this,” Porthos croaked. “I don’t know how much longer I can _not fuckin’ sleep_. I don’t know how much more I can take, d’Artagnan.” Tears swelled up in his eyes and he wiped them roughly. “Shit. Sorry. ’m still kinda tired.”

“I’m here,” d’Artagnan soothed, crawling over and slinging an arm around his friend. “I wasn’t, I know, but I’m here now. It won’t get that bad again.”

“You’re gonna share a bed with me? For the rest a’our lives? What happens when you wanna share with someone else? What happens when you marry Constance?”

D’Artagnan frowned. “I’m not marrying Constance, Porthos.”

“Oh right. You’re still tryin’ t’pretend that ain’t inevitable.”

“Porthos--”

“No, ‘m bein’ serious, pup. Now I’m not tryin’ t’sound greedy, or ungrateful. But sooner or later you’re gonna realize how much of a burden I’m bein’. An’ the more used to it I get, the more that’ll hurt me.”

D’Artagnan sighed, feeling suddenly tearful himself for reasons he couldn’t quite process. He blinked a few times.

“Oh-- hey, not for that. Don’ cry for that,” Porthos pleaded, frowning with concern.

“I won’t if you won’t,” d’Artagnan huffed, and Porthos laughed brokenly.

“Sorry. Sorry. Jus’-- everyone’s gonna leave me, y’know?”

“What? Nobody’s going to leave you, Porthos.”

“Yeah you will. Sooner or later you’ll be with Constance, and Aramis’ll take his vows, an’ Athos’ll remember he’s got a county to look after, an’ I’ll-- be here, I guess. Soldierin’.”

“Christ _God_ , Porthos,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I like you better well-rested, did you know that? Listen, you live your life spread out over too many days, and you spread yourself too thin. Porthos, I’m not marrying anytime soon, and Athos isn’t going anywhere. And I can’t speak for Aramis, but who ever can? Just, let it be for now. If you need somebody beside you, I’ll be beside you. You’d do the same for me. You’ve _done_ the same for me-- seriously, are you forgetting where we were two days ago?”

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos murmured. “I am _never_ gonna forget that.”

D’Artagnan tightened the arm around his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he sighed, as Porthos’ curls brushed up against his neck. “It’s all right. We’re going to go for a walk, and everything’s going to feel better in the sunshine.”

Porthos sighed. “Awright. I trust ya, pup.”

Leaning on that trust, d’Artagnan got Porthos to eat an apple and some cheese, then brought him his boots and lingered while he did them up with clumsy fingers. Then he led him into the daylight, feeling almost as though his friend were his child. Porthos blinked through the summery haze of the early afternoon, and struggled for a moment to roll up his sleeves to his elbows. Hand on his back, d’Artagnan guided him along what he hoped was a discreet path out of the garrison.

Or perhaps not.

“Porthos!”

It was Treville. They froze, and guilt leaked uncomfortably into d’Artagnan’s veins as the captain circled them, squinting.

“Well, you don’t look well, but you don’t look as bad as he did, either,” Treville said finally.

Porthos shook his head. “I haven’t vomited, captain. I jus’ feel awful.”

“I believe you,” Treville replied at once. “What I’m not clear on is why, when you fell into the Seine and ended up with an ankle three times what it should have been, you _begged_ me to report anyway-- and now your _tummy_ hurts and you decide to take yourself and d’Artagnan off the roster. You take great pride in your commission, Porthos, and that’s among your most admirable traits. Which makes behavior like this all the more perplexing.”

Utterly wretched, Porthos hung his head.

Treville softened visibly. “Porthos, I can see the effect that the last few months have had on you. You’ve obviously had a lot to deal with. You all have. And I say, without attempting judgement, that you have not been dealing with it well. So I don’t know if you’re depressed or if you’re just hungover again--”

“I’m not!” Porthos cried, at the same time that d’Artagnan yelped, “captain, that’s not fair!”

Treville put up a hand.

“I’m not going in quite the direction you think I am. Porthos, put as plainly as I can manage: you must be very hurt indeed to engage in behaviors such as truancy.” Treville laid a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, and Porthos lowered his head once again. “There are times that a captain must prioritize discipline, and times he must prioritize compassion. It took me a while, but I’ve sorted the two out by now. Take the time you need. Do what you have to do to come back to yourself, son.”

Worn to the bone as he already was, d’Artagnan was half-sure that Porthos would actually be moved to the point of weeping by the captain’s unexpected tenderness. Certainly the sunlight revealed a sheen of tears when he lifted his face to Treville’s. But in the end he closed his eyes, and nothing escaped them; he only stood, still and quiet, accepting the much-needed comfort.

“‘m tired, cap’n.” Porthos’ voice was small. “Feel-- Christ, I feel _beaten_. Like someone’s knocked me down an’ kicked the honest shit outta me.”

“I know,” Treville soothed. “I know.”

They stood together still.

“Go. Rest. But when you come back,” Treville continued a short while later, taking his hand away, “come back to stay. I can’t rearrange the duty roster twice a week just because _les Inseparables_ have stirred up another pot. I can’t tell the king you’ll be on duty and then tell him you’re not. You’re the best team I’ve got, and you know it. Now stop taking advantage of it. The next time you report, you will be fully fit, and needing no further accommodations. Is that clear?”

They nodded, speechless.

“Sort yourselves out,” the captain grouched, and departed.

Porthos blinked after him, tracking him carefully, like a child intent on understanding how a bird could take flight. At long last he shook it off, and turned to d’Artagnan.

“Why’re you smirkin’?” he grumbled.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. Just spilled my guts the captain an’ got my ass handed to me in one go, an’ you’re smirkin’.”

“The captain always used to use that name-- _les Inseparables_ \-- he used it only to mean the three of you.” D’Artagnan hoped his cheeks weren’t pinkening. “Only-- I think he put me in there too, this time.”

Porthos sighed. “Might not’ve been a compliment in this case.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll take it.”

Porthos frowned. “You still see yourself as somethin’ different? Think you’re on the outside, or somethin’?”

D’Artagnan said nothing.

“You ain’t,” Porthos told him. “Awright? You ain’t on the outside of anythin’. You’re the littlest brother, but someone’s gotta be.”

“I’m not,” d’Artagnan huffed, “ _little_.”

“Set against me?” Porthos challenged, with a smile.

But d’Artagnan’ thoughts had gone elsewhere by now. “So there’s-- still four of us, then?”

Porthos blinked slowly at him, and said nothing.

“Mm. Well, come on, old man,” d’Artagnan teased, and took him by the arm. “You need your country air.”

*

Porthos woke to grass beneath his cheek, grass beneath his toes, and d’Artagnan’s fingers at the crown of his head. Clouds had overtaken the sky, and the air was mild and sweet.

He pushed himself up, feeling weak and unsteady, but nowhere near as disoriented as he’d been that morning. “How long?” he croaked, rubbing his eyes.

D’Artagnan regarded him calmly, retracting his hand into his lap. “Three hours? Maybe a little more? My father could keep perfect time by the sun even with clouds as thick as this, but I can’t. Paris and its church bells have made me lazy.”

“Didn’t mean t’fall asleep,” Porthos grunted, looking away.

“I know. It was funny, really. One minute you were talking about how much you liked being barefoot, and the next you were out cold.”

“An’ you-- watched me sleep-- for three hours?”

“I thought about seeing how many dandelions I could stick in your beard without waking you, but in my infinite kindness I remembered that waking you at all would be fairly cruel. So I did that instead.” D’Artagnan gestured to the ground behind him, and Porthos twisted around to see a bright, thick halo of dandelions and other wildflowers, arranged around where his head would have been. He looked back at d’Artagnan, who shrugged. “Call it an ancient Gascon ritual to invoke a good sleep.”

“I call it you bein’ twitchy an’ easily bored.”

“That too.”

Porthos lay back, positioning himself identically to how he had been; in some strange way he could sense the flowers around him, as though there really were some faint enchantment in them after all. He heaved a breath, trying to draw it in.

“Porthos--”

“‘m not fallin’ asleep again. Least, ‘m not plannin’ to.”

“No, it’s just-- I think you should talk to the others. About your insomnia. I don’t know how much they know but I don’t think they know the extent.”

Porthos blinked, then pulled himself upright. “It’s-- eh. It’s kinda embarrassin’. Isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“Moreso than me crying because Athos fell off a horse?”

“Don’t need them worryin’.”

“They’ll already be worried, after this morning. Besides, you don’t mind people worrying about you,” d’Artagnan countered. “At least, you never have before.”

“It ain’t some big secret. I don’t sleep well. Sun still rises.”

“You didn’t sleep for _five days_ , Porthos. You didn’t-- I mean, you didn’t _see_ yourself last night. You could barely walk. And your _eyes_ , it was like they couldn’t lock onto anything. I literally hauled you out of the stables-- thank _God_ no one saw you or you’d’ve been charged as drunk on duty!”

“I was tired.”

“Yeah, I know. I know, because you were _clinging_ to me, _weeping_ about it.”

Porthos was on his feet before he realized he was standing. D’Artagnan glared up at him. “You told me not to mince words with you, Porthos. So I don’t. You aren’t well, _mon ami_. Sleep is not a luxury and missing it isn’t a joke.”

“Aramis knows,” Porthos sighed. “Told ‘im a while back. But he doesn’t--”

“Don’t say he doesn’t care.”

“He doesn’t understand.” Porthos’ voice was flat. “D’Artagnan, none of you do. You probably think I’m just tired a lot. But tired’s _nothin’_. It goes so far beyond that-- it’s like I’m not even me. I’m along for the ride but some other thing’s holdin’ the reigns. I can’t control myself. Can’t get the right words out. I forget what happened ten seconds after it does. It’s like drownin’ in the world itself.”

D’Artagnan looked up at him, face open and calm. “I think maybe each of us understands a little better than the other’s giving him credit for.”

Porthos sighed as his breathing evened out, then reached down and hauled d’Artagnan to his feet. D’Artagnan hugged him, and they pressed together gratefully.

“Bring some a’those flowers with ya, eh?” Porthos huffed, after a while, nuzzling his eyes against the familiar shoulder. “Think I may need ‘em again.”

“You know that’s not actually an ancient Gascon ritual, right?”

“How’s your stomach?” Porthos asked, instead of replying, suddenly realizing he hadn’t done so all day. But d’Artagnan didn’t seem to mind.

“Honestly, this is the first day yet it’s felt normal.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Don’t think I’ll run out and celebrate with sausages and clotted cream, but I think I’ve officially survived my first poisoning.”

“Let’s let it be your last, eh?” Porthos breathed. He tried to laugh, to seal the moment on a happy note-- but something ugly inside of him had finally worked its way loose.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan murmured, as Porthos began to cry. “Hey, Porthos, it’s all right. Come on.”

“Shit,” Porthos huffed. “Sorry. Shit, I-- I can’ stop.” The confession cut off with a burble.

“No, it certainly doesn’t sound that way,” d’Artagnan teased. “Talk to me. Come on.”

“You were so sick.” The words were badly muffled, trapped against d’Artagnan’s chest and beneath the steady breeze; Porthos could barely understand them himself. “You were so fuckin’ sick, I-- _mm_.”

“Hey, _shh_ , _shh_ ,” d’Artagnan soothed, rubbing Porthos’ arm up and down, up and down. “I’m all right. I’m right here.” Porthos shook his head. His fingers twitched on d’Artagnan’s back, tears soaking into the fabric of d’Artagnan’s collar. “There’s no reason to be upset,” d’Artagnan insisted. His words were not impatient or judgmental, only kind, fortifying. But the tears were nowhere close to ending.

“You--” Porthos gasped out, wetly, “I mean, pup, I-- I didn’t think you were gonna make it. For a coupla hours there. I really didn’t think you would.”

“I did. I made it, Porthos, look!”

“You were so damn sick. I mean the _dyin_ ’ kinda sick, d’Artagnan.”

“ _Shh_ , _shh_. I’m fine now. I’m just sorry I put you through this.”

Porthos sniffled. “You didn’t mean to.”

“No, I didn’t. I really didn’t. Come on, cheer up for me.” D’Artagnan pressed a kiss to Porthos’ cheek and Porthos gave a short, broken laugh as he accepted the comfort. “Cheer up for me, big brother. I’m right here.”

They stood together a while longer, until at last the sobs had faded into a sleepy, steady breathing.

“Come on,” d’Artagnan said. “Let’s get you home.”

He guided Porthos out of the field, back into the city, and to his apartment; inside, though there was at least an hour left of sunlight, they took off their boots and belts and crawled together into bed.

“Jesus, I could sleep too,” d’Artagnan sighed. He wriggled in close to Porthos, and even though the room was not cold there was comfort in his gentle warmth.

Porthos’ eyes were heavy. His mind was comfortably muddled and, breathing in the security of d’Artagnan’s hand against his chest, he felt sleep once again claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose apologies are in order for the utter lack of Athos, and Aramis, and plot in this chapter. Sorry. Porthos just really needed a cry, I think (again). Only two chapters left! Already 18,000 words into my next story ;) Hoping to post by November!


	11. Chapter 11

Athos shut the door quietly, without entering the room. D’Artagnan and Porthos both seemed utterly lost to the world, tucked safely within the boundaries of sleep and each other’s arms; there was no need to wake them. Still he felt unexpectedly lonely, not being there beside them.

Then the door cracked back open; d’Artagnan slipped out, glancing back at Porthos before shutting the door behind him.

“Hey, Athos,” he greeted. “Sorry, I don’t want to wake him.”

Despite himself, Athos smiled. D’Artagnan was fine-- he _knew_ this-- and yet there was still the feeling of a terrible weight lifting each time Athos saw lucidity in his eyes, heard energy in his voice. “I thought you were both asleep.”

“Nah. Only he sleeps better if someone’s with him.”

“I came by to check on you.”

“I know. He’s-- well, we should be all right to report tomorrow, I think. I don’t want to say he’s fine, but he’s better.”

“What happened?”

D’Artagnan sighed. “This morning I thought it was his right to tell you himself. But now I don’t know that he will.”

“What is it?”

“Athos, Porthos has insomnia. I don’t mean occasionally. I mean badly. Nearly every night.”

Athos nodded, though it hurt to hear. “I gathered that it was something to that effect. I’m not sure he remembers this, but just after Aramis’ return he referenced it to me. Just an offhand remark, and he was drunk at the time. And then of course I was there for his monologue regarding the shrub. But he had never looked me in the eye and told me of it himself.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “He tries to wave it off. But it’s bigger than he wants to admit. He didn’t sleep for five days, Athos. He literally did not sleep for four straight nights, and last night he may not have if I hadn’t given him a triple dosage of valerian root and gotten in bed beside him.”

“Oh, _Porthos_ ,” Athos murmured.

“He never seemed to have any trouble before, y’know. When Aramis came back, I hoped it’d get better.”

“I’ve seen that man actually sleep on his feet.” And on horseback. And in taverns loud enough that Athos’ headache had lasted for days. “When we were younger.”

“I know part of it, this time, was what happened to me. That’s why it got so completely out of hand. But even before then, ever since-- you know-- there’s been plenty of nights he doesn’t fall asleep for hours. When he does sleep he’s restless. Sometimes he calls out, or cries, and then doesn’t remember it.

“They need to fix this, Athos. He and Aramis. I don’t think he’ll be all right until they do.”

“D’Artagnan, I think it’s dangerous to assume that simply reuniting them could fix a problem like Porthos’.” He himself had thought up plenty of _if_ _only_ ’s that had eventually come true, and though they may have eased the sadness, none of them had lifted it.

“But don’t you think it’ll help?” d’Artagnan persisted. “At least he’ll feel he’s got the three of us to lean on again. When I--”

He broke off then, looking suddenly shy. After a moment he forced himself on. “When I was sick, one of the worst things about it was not having Aramis there. I’m sorry, I don’t meant that like it sounds-- I don’t mean I wasn’t grateful for the two of you. But there used to be _four_ of us, Athos. Don’t you think we’d all stand a better chance if there were four of us again?”

“Of course I do,” Athos replied, something stirring in him that he could not name. “I’m not sure why you’re arguing this to me like it’s something that’s never occurred to me. Understand, please, that I did not have a family before the three of you. Now it’s been ripped away from me and I feel an orphan once again. Do not _imply_ that I do not feel the pain of this!”

He’d finished on a shout, quite without meaning to.

D’Artagnan stared at him for a long moment, then gingerly touched a hand to his arm. “I wasn’t trying to imply that, Athos. Not in the slightest.”

Athos’ heart was pounding. “I know,” he whispered, and he could hear the lump that kept his voice from getting any louder. “I-- apologize, d’Artagnan.”

“We’re still all here,” d’Artagnan replied, speaking cautiously, still looking a bit stunned by Athos’ outburst. Athos was a bit stunned himself. “We’ve come close to losing some of the pieces, but we haven’t. All we’ve got to do is fit the whole thing back together. Talk to Aramis. I’ll talk to Porthos. We’ll fix this. All right?”

The hand was back at his arm. Athos leaned bodily into d’Artagnan’s presence and remained there for a long, quiet moment. Then d’Artagnan patted him firmly, and went back inside.

For a long moment he genuinely contemplated sodding off and getting good and drunk; instead Athos found himself a few doors down, slipping inside of Aramis’ apartment, unannounced.

“Athos,” Aramis greeted. Though they’d parted ways at the stables only minutes before, Aramis smiled as though seeing Athos honestly cheered him. This, in turn, cheered Athos. A bit. “Did you check on them?”

“They’re well. Porthos was sleeping.”

Aramis came to his side. “Are you all right?”

Athos blinked, watching the blue echoes of the candle flames dance behind his eyelids.

“No.”

Now it was Aramis’ hand on his arm. Athos pulled in a deep breath and did not let himself feel ashamed about how badly he needed it. “Tell me,” Aramis coaxed.

“Fix things between you and Porthos,” Athos murmured. “Please.”

The hand disappeared.

“You think I haven’t tried?” Aramis moved away, settled at the table; Athos sat across from him. This time he poured no brandy, but slipped the rosary from around his neck and worried the beads between his thumb and forefinger.

Athos shut his eyes. After a long silence, Aramis sighed. “I’m sorry, Athos. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I want you around,” Athos murmured, cracking his eyes open. “I want you all around. I want you all back.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“You and Porthos have disagreed before.”

Aramis snorted. “This is a bit different than arguing about which tavern to go to, no? I’m-- I’m not sure that we’re coming back from this one.”

 _I need you to_ , Athos thought, but didn’t say. _I need you to_.

“Athos,” Aramis sighed, and reached across the table to lay a hand atop Athos’ own; it was the hand holding the rosary, and the round wooden beads pressed gently into Athos’ skin. “This is nothing to do with you. Nobody’s leaving you. You will still have me and you will still have him.”

Aramis spoke as though he were a child-- but Athos felt a child then, abandoned and frightened. He forced this down. “Be that as it may, we should be as four.”

“But if what I’ve done is too much-- if it’s too much, Athos, I can’t fault him for that.”

“I don’t know that you two will survive without the other.”

“No,” Aramis agreed, “I don’t know that either.”

With a violent jolt, he remembered lowering Aramis’ grave into the ground. In the strange way of memories mixing, he’d been seeing this for days, imagining opening the coffin, finding d’Artagnan’s waxy face sleeping forever inside. Now it was Aramis he saw again, and a moment later, Porthos.

How on earth had their paths led them here-- here to where he himself should fear that he would be the one to bury all of them? It had always been-- should always have been-- the other way around.

“Ath,” Aramis murmured, as a tear broke free from Athos’ eye, rolled through the valley between his nose and his cheek, and settled in a dimple there. “Hey, come on now, this isn’t worth it.” He squeezed Athos’ hand tighter so that the beads bit deeper into his skin.

Athos snatched his hand away. “Tell me you see a future without the four of us united,” he ordered, holding his eyes wide open; he could feel the tears shivering at the corners of them. “ _Tell me_ , Aramis!”

“ _What do you want me to say_?” Aramis shouted back. “I’m sorry it’s upset you, Athos, but _I don’t know what to do_!”

Perhaps Aramis mistook the despair on Athos’ face for rage, because all at once his own face crumpled up in a plea. “I’m sorry,” he moaned. “Please don’t leave, Ath, I-- I really don’t want to be alone right now. Can we just sit together a while?”

Athos said nothing. After a long moment he stood, pulled his chair to Aramis’ side, and sat again.

Aramis sighed and began to pray then. The familiar shapes and tones of Latin dipped and danced, Aramis’ voice a soft lulling thing even despite its own sorrow, and Athos let himself rest in its comfort.

Time passed, and eventually he opened his eyes.

The beads of the rosary cast an intricate, swinging shadow against the floo, and without quite knowing why, Athos reached out a hand and seized the string’s slack end.

Aramis’ praying ceased. “I’ll need that bit eventually, you know.”

Athos nodded but did not let go.

And a little while later, the recitation reached the beads clenched in Athos’ fist; Aramis took hold of his friend’s hand right along with the rosary, and prayed on. Athos lowered his head onto Aramis’ shoulder.

“What did you pray for?” he whispered, when Aramis had finally finished.

“Strength,” Aramis replied. “The strength to fix this, just like you said, _mon ami_. At least to try.”

*

It was the third and final day of the party. Aramis was thoroughly glad of this; while their lives had been crumbling to pieces the king had been hunting and feasting with his brother, and Aramis resented it entirely.

He’d slept poorly after Athos had finally left. In his brother’s company he had found a temporary place of solace, but in the end there was no hiding from the truth of it: he and Porthos were bringing their friends down with them. It was not a burden he could bear.

Now, under the hot sun in the fields of the Louvre, Aramis felt slept-deprived and a bit sick to his stomach. He, Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan stood far from one another, saying nothing. Between them, under the shade of a broad tent, the king lounged and laughed and generally carried on, oblivious to the tension spread thick between his guards. Porthos would not look at Aramis. Aramis glanced over at Porthos every few seconds, just to check. D’Artagnan glanced anxiously around. Athos stared off into the distance and would not look at anyone.

Despite that tension, they still operated as a unit.

When the first shot rang out, they sprang into action as though there had never been the slightest obstacle in the story of their brotherhood.

Guns in hand, Porthos and d’Artagnan tore off in the direction of the weapon fire. Aramis threw himself at the Queen and Athos at the king and the duke, pushing them down flush to the ground.

“Again?” Aramis cried out to Athos; it was an expression of frustration, of course, but it was more than that. He and Athos realized it simultaneously.

“Damn!” Aramis whispered. “They were scouts!”

“There were others in the woods, watching our reaction.”

“Watching to see which path I led the king and queen back along!”

“That’s where the rest of them will be!”

“I took them along the eastern hedge,” Aramis supplied, and already Athos was leaping to his feet.

“Get them to safety,” he shouted, “any path but that one!”

*

It was as though time had repeated itself, d’Artagnan thought, as he chased through the woods after a retreating silhouette. This time it was Porthos running beside him, but all else was the same. He’d chased the assassins through the woods with Athos, come to find Athos with a gun to his head, and the fit that had followed this moment of terror had been the beginning of so much pain, for all of them--

D’Artagnan pushed this from his mind and ran faster. At his side, Porthos tore through branches and over roots like he’d been born to do so, and then all at once they were face to face with the points of two swords.

Unfortunately for the assassins, they’d been running pistols in hand.

Two men stood before them, dressed as the first set of assassins had been, still holding their swords aloft under the threat of the pointed guns.

“s’there some kind of assembly everyone forgot t’tell me about?” Porthos grumbled. The taller of the men smiled.

“You didn’t work it out, then. Good.”

“Work what out?” d’Artagnan demanded, taking a decent step forward. Neither assassin withdrew.

“Shoot us if you like,” the second one snarled, “your king is already dead.”

“The others were scouts,” Porthos realized. “They were scouts, an’ you’re decoys.”

D’Artagnan’s stomach sank.

“Put down your damn swords,” Porthos commanded. “Or don’t you know how a pistol works?”

The assassins did not move.

“You can come back with us now,” d’Artagnan heard his voice saying, “and turn yourself in, or you can die here. It really is your choice.”

“I’d come back if I were you,” Porthos noted-- then the sound of gunfire from back in the field interrupted them all.

“That’ll be the shot,” the second assassin boasted. But d’Artagnan’s thoughts were not with the king.

There came another shot, quieted by distance but no less sharp, then a third in rapid succession. Then nothing.

“Here’s how it is,” Porthos growled. “Me an’ him, we gotta get ourselves back. You can come, or you can die here.”

“I’ll die a happy man,” the first assassin proclaimed. “Knowing I’ve freed France from that cold-hearted bastard.”

And, as one, the assassins pressed forward.

D’Artagnan’s thoughts were still back at the field, where three shots had been fired and any number of other things could have happened by now. Aramis and Athos were back there. And so d’Artagnan’s mind did not realize what was happening until it was too late to step back: that the two men, feeling their jobs fulfilled, would force the musketeers to kill them rather than take them in.

He’d probably feel something about that later. After all, as he’d come to realize in more recent months, everyone they killed had someone else to miss them, even if it were just a crew of criminals-- every life he took was just that, a life.

His own sorrows had made him soft, perhaps.

But in the moment, as they stepped up, swords pointed proudly, d’Artagnan thought only of Porthos’ safety, and fired.

An instant later, Porthos did the same.

Headshots, both of them-- leaving no reason to stick around.

“C’mon!” Porthos shouted, needlessly, as they were both already sprinting back towards the field. D’Artagnan’s heart was pounding, mind blurring. They burst through the trees not far from where they’d entered, to find the tent abandoned, the king and his party led to safety-- or killed on the path.

D’Artagnan scanned the huge field. And finally, at the far side, he caught side of Athos, kneeling over what looked to be the body of third assassin. Athos himself was unharmed.

A familiar faintness came upon d’Artagnan; he hunched himself over, braced his hands on his knees, and waited. At his side, he sensed Porthos tense up. His breath was coming as quickly as if he had never stopped running, and rather than bother to clench his teeth against it he simply gasped aloud. His knees were trembling.

And yet-- his stomach was behaving itself, giving no more than a halfhearted flop, and his eyes were blessedly dry.

D’Artagnan waited still, and still the fit did not come.

A moment later he felt the familiar pressure of a thick, warm hand resting on his head, but Porthos did not embrace him. Instead he rubbed d’Artagnan’s scalp for a minute. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, d’Artagnan felt the hand on his head moving it, turning it with the utmost care-- first to the right, then to the left, then to the right, then the left again. 

Right. 

Left.

Right. 

Left. 

D’Artagnan burst out laughing; the sound itself was fairly hysterical, but after it faded he found he was breathing normally. When he made to stand, Porthos let him.

“Awright?” Porthos prompted, and d’Artagnan nodded. 

“No weeping. No dry-heaving. I think that’s a victory.”

“I like a man with low standards,” Porthos chuckled, and grabbed him up. It was not an embrace of comfort so much as of casual camaraderie, and d’Artagnan slapped his friend’s back as they pulled apart. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Athos called across the field.

Later, after they had reported back to the king, after they had withstood a round of praises followed by a rant demanding why they hadn’t expected the entire assassination plot, d’Artagnan was still in high spirits, buoyed by the knowledge that he had faced down a panic-inducing situation and had not succumbed to a fit. He didn’t entirely understand it. He was fairly sure that the purging itself had been nothing but trouble all along, but the valerian that he was still dutifully taking had perhaps, with time, mounted an effect. Or perhaps time itself was healing him. Perhaps as it carried him further and further away from the memories of burying a brother he was simply healing from within.

Whatever the reason, he felt blessed, and a little lucky. If ever there was a time to have the necessary conversation with Porthos, it was now.

“Victory drinks?” he asked Porthos, back at the garrison. “It’s all right. Just us, I mean. C’mon.”

Porthos hesitated a moment, but then smiled as he nodded, and a short while later they found themselves in a comfortable tavern with mugs of ale before them.

“To the ebbing of the black bile,” d’Artagnan toasted, raising his mug.

Porthos snorted. “It ain’t the usual toast, but I’ll drink to it, I s’pose.” They both did.

“Aramis calls it melancholia,” d’Artagnan mused, rubbing his forehead. “What I’m going through, I mean.”

“Yeah. He’s used that t’talk about Athos too.”

“Right. Only he says that it’s Athos’ natural temperament as well. Predisposed to it, I guess.”

“Rubbish. I’m no heathen-- I understand the humors-- but is there honestly a man or woman alive who ain’t felt somethin’ like that before?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “It certainly got me. And I’m no melancholic. Aramis calls me choleric. You don’t agree?” he asked, when Porthos scoffed.

“Nah. Not really.”

“Aramis calls you _sanguine_. Says you’re ruled by blood, and blood is the best of the humors.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll settle for bein’ whichever sort gets to sleep. Anyway, don’t it seem to you a fair balance would be the best?”

“I suppose. But does that really happen?”

Porthos smiled. “If anyone’s got it, pup, I’d say it’s you.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Balance? Really?”

“Maybe not a perfect balance, but good enough. I mean, you’ve got some diverse influences, a’least.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You learn from those around you. An’, you got me, you got Aramis, an’ you got Athos.”

“Only missing my healthy dose of phlegm.”

“Oh yeah? You can’t think of anyone in your life who might provide a sort of _rational_ presence? A calmer one? Maybe even more-- womanly?”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Constance and I aren’t together, Porthos. What’s more, if you’re implying she’s not got at least a small excess of choler herself, then you’ve never seen her with a sword in her hand.”

Porthos shrugged easily. “So we’re all our own people. Don’t need no physician t’tell me that. Guess what I’m sayin’ is, I like the mix you got. ‘s a good mix.” He raised his mug, drank from it deeply.

“Thanks, Porthos. I like yours too.” Porthos laughed into his ale as he lowered it from his mouth.

D’Artagnan pulled in a breath. “And while you’re thinking fondly of me, I’ll take the chance to let you know that I, eh-- I told Athos. About your insomnia. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Porthos’ brow crunched together, and d’Artagnan watched to see if the expression would become one of anger or despair. In the end it was neither, really. Porthos only nodded, then slowly relaxed again. “I would’ve. Eventually. But I understand why you did it.”

“There may not be much that we can actually do about it. But I want you to know that you have our support. All three of us.”

Porthos’ smile was painfully forced. “Thanks. Yeah. Hey, how’s that ale treatin’ ya? First drink you’ve had since you got sick, innit?”

D’Artagnan huffed a laugh. “It’s fine. I’m fine, Porthos. Listen-- we’ve been talking about me all night. We need to talk about you.”

“Me?”

“You. And Aramis. Hey,” d’Artagnan added, before Porthos could protest. “Before you say another word I want to remind you of something. We both have seen the worst of each other, and here we still are.”

Porthos closed his eyes a moment, seeming to take strength from those words. “Awright. Say your piece, pup.”

“There’s not much to say. At least, I mean, you know it all. You know that things between all of us haven’t really been all right in a while now. You know when it started. I don’t need to say it. But Porthos-- Porthos, it’s killing you. Not having Aramis at your side. It’s this constant pain, and I _see_ it, and I’d fix it if I could. But I can’t.”

Porthos was staring intently into his ale by now, and did not react when d’Artagnan touched a hand to his. “He did something that hurt you. I get that. It hurt all of us, but you worst of all. But the hurt you’re feeling now is a hurt that you can do something about. Once and for all, big brother, you need to fix things with Aramis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rich Text was giving me some serious grief over this one, for whatever reason. Multiple lines were deleted. I think I've fixed it all but please let me know if anything's still wonky... I've gotten to the point with this story that I've read it so many times I can't seem to make myself read it slowly for proper proofing -_-
> 
> Also, I just needed to blurt this out because I'm freaking out a bit. Just realized that, if you consider _Weight_ and _Dyscrasia_ as one story (which I honestly do), the total word length is longer than _HP and the Chamber of Secrets_ and nearly as long as _The Hobbit_. I basically only wrote oneshots before the Musketeers. Boys, what have you done to me?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, last chapter! Y'all know what needs to happen in this one. Hope it doesn't disappoint :)

Porthos did not expect a single minute of sleep that night, and so was pleased when he woke in the morning. The last set of bells he remembered hearing were the quarter-til-twos. That meant he’d probably gotten a solid four hours of sleep, despite way that d’Artagnan’s words had been running round and round in his skull.

And really, wasn’t this just another example? Only a pretty fucked up man would consider four hours of sleep some sort of victory. D’Artagnan was right: he needed Aramis. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that this would solve everything, but it had to be a damn big step in the right direction.

He wasn’t sure how he was feeling as he walked over to the garrison. _Nervous_ wasn’t quite the right word, and yet his heart was fluttering restlessly; _determined_ wasn’t it either, and yet he knew how it had to end.

It had to end well.

Dressed only in his shirt and trousers, Porthos passed under the entrance arch to the garrison, and found Aramis already at a table, as though waiting for him. He, too, had forgone his leathers. This heartened Porthos; they were both of them coming here as men, not as musketeers, open and vulnerable, bellies exposed. They wore no belts, no weapons. At their collars, Aramis wore his rosary, and Porthos wore his medallions: St. Jude and St. Thomas.

_Bravery and endurance._

Aramis lifted his head, met Porthos’ eyes. He looked wrung-out but calm, and his droopy eyes lit up just a little as Porthos came to his side.

“We needa talk,” Porthos said. Aramis’ smile was softer than usual: lopsided and wavering but perfectly open.

“I know,” he replied, and stood. “My quarters?”

“Neutral ground.”

Aramis nodded his understanding. “But private,” he added, and Porthos chuckled.

“That’s for damn sure.” There was something strange about heading willfully into a conversation that would surely draw tears at some point or another.

Well. There was also something strange about heading willfully into a conversation that could change one’s life.

“Armory?” Aramis prompted, and once he realized what he’d said they both laughed. Porthos relaxed, just a bit.

“I damn well hope neither of us is gonna get that angry,” he replied. “But maybe we had better not risk it.”

“The medical room?”

Porthos thought a moment, then nodded. Most of the times he’d gotten needlework from Aramis had been out somewhere on duty, but it had happened a fair few times in that room as well. Something about that felt safe. It was also where he’d first borne witness to d’Artagnan’s panic; that moment had not started all this but there were times when it had felt that way.

It would be a good place to resolve it.

Walking at pace with one another, Porthos and Aramis crossed the garrison to the chosen room, entered, and closed the door behind themselves. Porthos drew two chairs up, and set them facing each other. Perhaps finding this too antagonistic, or perhaps just too formal, Aramis flopped down to the floor and pressed his back up against the wall.

Porthos sat in a chair. “So. Where do we start?”

They smiled sadly at one another, just as they had done that day on the bridge, if nothing else united by the feeling of being utterly at a loss.

“Actually, I do know what I wanted to say first,” Aramis murmured. “So you know where I’m coming from with it.”

“All right.”

“It may be hard for you to hear, but I need you to listen.”

“I will,” Porthos vowed.

“All right.” Aramis took a breath. “Porthos, I’m-- I’m shattered. I’m absolutely torn to pieces that you blame me for what happened to d’Artagnan. Please, please, be as angry with me as you want, for as long as you want, about how I faked my death. But believe me when I say, I meant d’Artagnan no harm when I suggested he use the antimonial cup. I understand that I’m not a physician, but I know a fair amount about medicine. You _know_ I do. He came to me for help and I did my best to help him. I did _not_ tell him to use the cup without my supervision. I would _never_ have let him infuse the wine that long, nor take that great a portion. Please, God, don’t blame me for that, if you can find that within you.”

Porthos sighed, and pressed a palm to his forehead. “If you’re gonna start with that, then I think I best start with an apology. I don’t blame you for that, Aramis. That was fear talkin’, an’ that doesn’t make it all right, but it’s the truth. I don’t blame you. Christ, I don’t even remember half of what I said, an’ I don’t think I want to.”

“I was only trying to help.”

Porthos lowered his hand, and saw Aramis blinking back tears. So it began, he thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “I know that. You care ‘bout ‘im, an’ you only did what you thought best. An’ he’s all right. He’s strong. Fought it off in two days flat.”

“And if he hadn’t? If my negligence had killed him?”

“Thought we agree we weren’t blamin’ you for this?”

“I asked you not to blame me, Porthos. I never said I didn’t blame myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Ar. It just got outta hand by its own self. I know you didn’t mean it, and I don’t blame you. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot,” Aramis admitted, wiping his eyes. “What you think has always been worth-- so much to me.” He sighed, and tried to smile. “There now. That’s the first item. You pick the second.”

“Don’t think I’ve got one.”

“Then tell me what’s been wrong. You look awful, Porthos. You always look so tired.”

“Simple explanation for that one,” Porthos huffed. “I always look tired ‘cause I hardly ever sleep.”

“What do you mean?”

Porthos shrugged, feeling helpless. “Mean what I said. It sounds stupid but sleepin’s really hard for me now. It takes me hours to fall asleep once I start tryin’, and there’ve been times I-- y’know. Times I never actually got t’sleep. I went four straight nights last week with nothin’. Personal record.”

“God,” Aramis breathed. “Five days, and you didn’t sleep-- at all? Not for an hour?”

Porthos shook his head. “Remember a few days back, the second day of the king’s party?”

Aramis nodded. “The day you and d’Artagnan stayed at the garrison,” he recalled.

“Fell so hard when I finally did, I slept fourteen hours. Took a walk and slept another three. Came back and slept right through the night again.”

“And other nights?”

“Not as bad as that. Not as good as I’d like. Mostly I fall asleep by one or two.”

“And you wake-- certainly by six or seven, I suppose, since you report on time.”

“I wake at dawn. What’s that now, ‘bout five thirty?”

“You sleep four hours a night. Give or take.”

“Yeah. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“You told me about it,” Aramis mused. “At least, you mentioned having a dream, and it made it hard for you to sleep. Then it all sort of piled up, right? I-- didn’t piece it together. To recognize that it was still an issue. _Damn_.” Aramis wrapped his arms around his belly. “I’m so sorry, Porthos. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You tried to talk to me the day before that. I wasn’t havin’ nothin’ of it. I want you to know that that wasn’t down to you. Was goin’ on four days then and I was just-- I was so damn tired. You know.”

“No. I mean, yes, but-- I can’t imagine. I’ve had a sleepless night or two in my life, but never to that degree.”

Porthos joined him on the floor then. He’d known that he was going to all along; to do so now might yet be early, but suddenly he needed to feel Aramis against him. He sat, rested his chin on Aramis’ shoulder, and closed his eyes.

Aramis stiffened beneath him, and did not embrace him-- but neither did he push him away. Porthos leaned a little heavier. In some strange way he wished for tears to come, but he was equally glad that they didn’t.

“Had the nightmare not the night of your funeral but the next,” Porthos mumbled, chin moving awkwardly against Aramis’ shoulder. He turned his head, rested his cheek there instead. “It was after Athos-- after Athos tried convincin’ us t’dig up your coffin and see if it was really you inside. But I, y’know, I thought it would be, of course. I thought of comin’ face-to-face with you, dead. Rottin’. Hit me so hard, the thought of seein’ you like that, I broke down. Threw up in the middle of the trainin’ yard. D’Artagnan dragged me home and put me to bed. It was rainin’. Rainin’ real hard.”

Porthos paused a moment, long enough to shift his cheek against the sleeve of Aramis’ shoulder and feel the fabric gently scratching his skin. “That night I dreamt I went to the cemetery, t’bring you flowers. But the rain had opened all the coffins. All around me were dead things, were corpses, but I didn’t see you. An’ I felt so-- _alone_. An’ then there you were. An’ you were a dead thing, Ar. All chewed up an’ scraggled an’ torn. But movin’. Walkin’. An’ speakin’-- cruelly to me. Still all I wanted was to be near you. But you broke apart. Turned to dust before my eyes. An’ the dust of you flew at me--

“An’ the next night when I lay down t’sleep that was all I could think about. Lay awake all night jus’ missin’ you, wantin’ you whole again. An’ it started t’get where when I got in bed it was time to think-- think about all the bad stuff-- not time to sleep. It stopped bein’ only about you and just turned into its own somethin’. Now I jus’-- I just get so tired, but my mind can’t relax. It’s the one thing you can’t force yourself t’do, y’know. Sleep.”

It was a while before Aramis spoke. When he did, his hair tickled Porthos’ nose, and his body shifted, almost too little to feel but not quite. “I feel as though I’ve cast a rock in a pond. Every ripple ends up larger than the last. It keeps going. But I only threw one rock.”

“Was a pretty big rock, Aramis.”

“I know.”

“Would you throw it again? Really, would you?”

“Yes.” Aramis’ voice was dull. “I did it to protect you.”

“You keep sayin’ that. Damn it, stop sayin’ that.”

“But it’s the truth.”

It probably had been too early to sit together. Porthos picked his head up from Aramis’ shoulder and leaned away to his other side.

“Why does that bother you so much?” Aramis murmured.

“’cause-- because why didn’t you trust me? Why didn’t you think I’d protect you from the cardinal? Or, Jesus, why didn’t you a’ least _tell_ me you were leavin’? I wouldn’t’ve told nobody. Woulda taken it t’my grave. And I wouldn’t’ve-- I thought you were--”

The tears he’d thought finally exhausted swelled again-- not tears of anger or betrayal, but of real grief.

“I thought you were _dead_ , Aramis,” Porthos rasped, and they spilled over. “Nothin’ in my life’s ever hurt me so badly. Not sure nothin’ ever will. I buried you. I fuckin’ _buried_ you. Every fuckin’ moment, that was with me. Turnin’ around to look for you an' realizin’ you weren’t there, an’ you’d never be there again. I couldn’t even think of the happy stuff anymore. Because we weren’t gonna get anymore happy stuff. An’ every story I ever wanted to tell you, every joke I wanted you to laugh at-- I’d missed my chance. The time I’d had with you was all I’d ever get. I don’t think you understand what that _felt_ like!”

Aramis’ arms enfolded him then. Porthos didn’t hug back but leaned up against him, closed his eyes, and surrendered to a gush of sobbing. Aramis shushed him, and Porthos stopped before long. In that moment he very much suspected that nobody but Aramis would have been able to calm him.

“You did what you hadda do,” Porthos murmured, catching his breath. “What you thought, a’least. All right. I get it. But you shoulda found a way to tell us. T’let us in on it. Or even jus’ me. Even jus’ me, damnit. I’d’ve pulled it off. You know I’d still’ve cried at the funeral.” They laughed a little, sobered quickly.

“And you’d’ve, what?” Aramis posed, tiredly. “Kept it from the others? Kept it from Athos as he drank himself to death?”

Porthos wiped his face and didn’t reply. Aramis pulled away.

“Porthos, this happened. Neither of us can change the fact that it happened. Can we please think instead about-- what happens now?”

“Don’ ask me ‘bout the monastery--”

“I’m not asking about that. I’m asking about us.” He paused to lick his lips. “Do we keep trying? Do we fight to be brothers still, or is it cruel of me to push the issue?”

Porthos blinked. “Don’ understand.”

“It is wrong of me to keep pushing you? I know that the others would be upset, but-- would you prefer we just-- let it go? Would that be kinder?”

“Let what go?”

“Us,” Aramis answered, openly miserable. Finally Porthos’ mind began to piece his words together. “Would it be better if we just gave up on _us_? Served as fellow soldiers, but no longer as brothers?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Porthos choked out. “No! No-- fuckin’ no!”

Tears filled Aramis’ eyes. “Are you sure? Are you sure?”

“Fuck you, ‘m fuckin’ sure,” Porthos bawled, new tears coming, pouring twice as fast at the thought of this, at the incomprehensible notion that he and Aramis would no longer be-- well-- Porthos and Aramis. He grabbed the man to him. Aramis fell against him bonelessly and Porthos held him close, pulling in great sobbing lungfuls of his scent, his warmth, his presence.

“Stop bein’ us,” Porthos choked. “You got some fuckin’ nerve.”

“All right,” Aramis whispered; his tears were silent but feverishly hot as they crept down beneath Porthos’ collar. “All right. I’m sorry. Not giving up.”

“You’d better fuckin’ not.” Porthos sniffed, and wiped his nose carefully so as not to dislodge Aramis. He pulled in a huge breath. “Christ, I-- Ar, I’m so sorry I made you think that’s what I wanted. Jesus. I know I’ve been a bastard. I know that. But I never saw this as the end of us. Even at the worst times I never thought of it as over. I’m so damn sorry you ever thought I felt that way. It just ain’t true. You an’ me-- I don’t know who I am without that.”

Aramis only pressed his face harder into Porthos’ neck. As Porthos’ own tears trickled to a stop, his came faster, silent still, but shaking his body with their force. He needed more time-- but that was all right. Porthos pressed salty lips to Aramis’ hair and began rock him, like a child, as relief pushed the sorrow violently from his heart. 

*

“How you doin’?” Porthos rumbled, after a while, and Aramis sighed. How was he doing? He wasn’t really sure, to be honest, but it upset him that the question might harbinger the end of their hug, because he didn’t feel ready to let go just yet.

“Not sure I should say this, given the circumstances, but honestly? I’m tired.” And Lord, he sounded it; even if it weren’t muffled by Porthos’ chest, Aramis was pretty sure his voice would still be clear as Paris mud.

Porthos snorted. “Just ‘cause I am don’t mean you can’t be.”

“All right, then. I’m fucking exhausted. Do you think you could sleep like this? Because I think I could sleep like this.”

“I am a delicate sleeper now,” Porthos sniffed. “So no, I don’t think I can sleep sittin’ up, ‘gainst a damn wall, with my boots on an’ your snotty face stickin’ all over me shirtfront.”

“Do you remember when you fell asleep at that banquet with the Swedish? I think it had been Athos’ birthday the night before.”

“No, but I remember you spewin’ your guts up behind a pillar at that banquet.”

“We threw Athos a really good party,” Aramis mused, with a giggle. “Only took him four years to reciprocate. God, we were so _young_ then. What was he turning? I suppose it was his thirtieth birthday, so I had to be twenty-six.”

“That didn’t feel young then.”

“‘course not. In ten years we’ll look back and think we were young now.”

“Don’t know ‘bout that,” Porthos sighed. “You ready?”

“To sit up? No. What if-- Porthos, what if I sit up now and you never-- we never get this again? Get a moment like this again?”

“But this is what we’re fightin’ for,” Porthos reminded him. “Ain’t that what we decided?”

It was. It was what they’d decided. Aramis took a deep breath, and sat up.

“There ya go,” Porthos said, with a fondness that Aramis had not expected to hear again. “Christ, you look a ruddy mess.” He brushed a thumb beneath Aramis’ eye; the tears were not there, had dried against the fabric of his shirt, but Porthos did it a few more times anyway. His touch was cool on Aramis’ flushed skin. “Still. Better now you got that outta you?”

“Mm-hm,” Aramis hummed. But this tenderness surprised him. Hadn’t they been arguing, before the tears? Had they come to a resolution there? He didn’t think they had. 

“Tired of fightin’,” Porthos huffed, when Aramis noted this quietly. “I thought I wanted it all done today, but-- Christ, I dunno. I don’t know.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” Aramis sighed. “I can’t do this again, Porthos. I can’t bring myself to this place anymore. This won’t be the last time either of us thinks of my actions, but I need this to be the last time we speak of them. At least for now.”

Porthos looked him up and down, up and down. “Awright.”

“I should have told you. I should have trusted you to do what you thought best with that information, even if that was telling Athos. Even if it was telling both of them. I should have, but I didn’t. And Porthos, if I had to choose again, I still wouldn’t.”

Porthos said nothing, but bit his lip. He settled his hand over Aramis’. 

“I still fear for you all, Porthos. I still fight, every morning, the urge to run away. I think being here might be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. But-- you know me enough to know me for a selfish man.”

“Hey--”

“Porthos.” Aramis pulled his hand away. “You think that sleeping with Adele was my greatest offense. It wasn’t.”

“For the love a’God, Ar. You say you wanna be done with this all, then you keep danglin’ that damn thing in front of me. Follow your own rule. Tell me now or stop talkin’ about it.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Aramis murmured. “Not unless I absolutely need to, and that time is not now. Athos knows only because he discovered it for himself. And I pray every day that the knowledge will not end him.”

Porthos’ gaze was steady, his mouth a straight line. “‘s really that big, eh?”

“It’s really that big.”

Porthos sighed, reached up, and patted Aramis’ cheek. “Awright,” he breathed. “Just, listen, Aramis. Please-- please stay. Whatever it is you can’t tell me, whatever it is you’ve done-- please let us face it with you, if it comes to it. If our world is gonna end at least let us be brothers for it. Don’t let us be strangers. Stay.”

“All right,” Aramis whispered. Privately he knew he’d do anything now, back any wager in the world, if it meant that Porthos would keep looking at him with that perfect, quiet fondness. “All right, I’ll stay.”

Porthos hardly seemed to expect this. “Really?” he prompted, sounding at once a bit weak.

“It isn’t as though I ever wanted to leave. Even in the moments now that I want to leave Paris, I never want to leave you.”

“You called it inevitable. Said it was childish to think we’d never be separated.”

“It probably still is. But the day we are parted, _cher ami_ , will be the day my heart breaks for good. I’ll postpone it as long as I can.”

“You thought that day came,” Porthos realized. “At the monastery. You didn’t think you’d see us again.”

Aramis smiled, but felt as though he could weep anew at the memory. “I didn’t, no. I didn’t think-- there would be any more _happy stuff_.”

Porthos’ brow crunched together. “ _Oh_.”

“I-- took something, to remind me of each of you.”

“My belt buckle.”

“Mm. And a whistle d’Artagnan carved me, and the book of poetry that Athos gave me when I turned twenty-five. And mother’s handkerchief, and my father’s bible. Every night, when we had finished eating supper and before I began saying my private prayers, I’d spread it all out on the floor or my cot and just-- cry. Cry like a little boy. I don’t know what the brothers must have thought of me. I suppose with flagellation condemned, we must find our mortal suffering through some other method.”

Aramis glanced up; Porthos was frowning thoughtfully at him.

He felt his face heat up. “Forgive the dramatic retelling, _mon ami_. I did lay my possessions out daily but I’m sure I actually wept no more than twice a week.”

The frown smoothed out until Porthos was just regarding him curiously. “No, it’s just-- guess I never thought about it like that,” Porthos mused. “You put yourself through the same thing you put us through. I’m sorry, Ar. Really, I am. In the end, the three of us had each other. You had no one.”

“It’s all right. It’s over. It’s done.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “Finally startin’ t’feel that way, innit?”

“Yes. But-- can we sit here a little longer? Not because I don’t think it’ll happen again. I just-- I just don’t want to stand up yet.”

Porthos chuckled, kicked Aramis’ foot playfully. “Nah. I don’t want to either. C’mere.”

Aramis didn’t need to be told twice. He rested his cheek on Porthos’ shoulder, and relished the weight that came as Porthos tipped his head atop Aramis’. For a moment he felt the familiar urge to wrap his arms around his belly. He reached over and slung them around Porthos instead, squeezing gently at the soft, billowy shirt and the warm, solid man beneath.

*

Pale light crept gently through the windowpanes.

“Oh,” Porthos said, aloud, to the empty room, as he opened his eyes and saw it. The last thing he remembered was climbing into bed. He had fallen asleep without fuss and had slept til a little past dawn.

He recalled nothing of the space between then and now. Nightmares had not plagued him, nor the feverish affliction of short, plentiful wakings, of restless half-conscious anxiety. No, Porthos was well versed in the tortures the dark hours could offer. And he had felt none of them this past night, and carried no memory forth but a pleasant absence of thought and a sensation of peacefulness.

He stretched his legs out lazily. He raised his arms as well, first into the air, then backwards, over his head-- and paused when his fingers brushed over something strange.

A handful of drying dandelions hid beneath the far edge of his pillow.

There was a swooping, down deep in his belly, like maybe he wanted to cry-- but he was not unhappy. There was no magic in the flowers, of course; he and d’Artagnan both knew this. But the notion that the boy had crept in here at some point, gone through the trouble of ensuring that Porthos felt cared for-- well.

That was the point of it. And that, he knew, was what would heal him in the end. He didn’t need anything else. He brothers had all come back to him now, and bit by bit he was coming back to himself.

The next night was easier for it, and the next. And when another bad night worked its way in, Porthos braced himself and lived through it, calmed by the knowledge that his body still remembered how to sleep.

Set-backs could come as they pleased.

 _He still remembered how to sleep_.

A week or two later, as they sweated through breakfast on an already-suffocated summer day, Porthos cleared his throat. “Just, eh. Wanted t’let you all know, I-- I’ve been sleepin’ better. Not perfect, but better. Think I slept almost seven hours last night.”

He felt himself blushing a little, but was pleased that he’d brought himself to say it.

The others were pleased as well. D’Artagnan slapped his back; Aramis lunged over to ruffle his hair. Athos smiled warmly and enthused, “that’s wonderful, Porthos.”

Embarrassment growing with all the attention, Porthos bowed his head and snorted. “Sorry. Gettin’ a good night’s sleep ain’t somethin’ worth alertin’ the bellman over, is it?”

“For you?” Aramis teased, at the same time as Athos encouraged, “we want to see you well, Porthos. And so we welcome news of your progress.”

“Besides. Keeping things to ourselves has been a bit shit, hasn’t it?” d’Artagnan added.

“Yeah. Yeah. With the exception of surprise parties,” Porthos noted, winking at Athos.

“But that’s the only exception you get, Athos,” Aramis added sternly.

“We work better when we’re balanced,” Athos summarized. This earned a chuckle from d’Artagnan. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“After all we just said!” Aramis began.

“Sorry. No. It’s just-- we all do sort of balance each other out, don’t we? And Porthos and I were drinking a while back--”

“’swhen I get my best ideas, y’know.”

“--and we were talking, and thought-- aren’t we four sort of a full set of temperaments? Maybe that’s why we work so well.”

“A balanced set with two cholerics?” Aramis prompted, and Athos frowned.

“D’Artagnan isn’t choleric, Aramis. Don’t foist your brashness on him; yours is inherent, and his will fade with age.”

“So what _are_ you then?”

“The center of the compass,” d’Artagnan replied, tossing his head. “The rose, if you will.”

“An’ so damn modest too.”

Aramis pouted. “Well, we’re still missing our phlegmatic.”

“And it isn’t Constance,” d’Artagnan insisted to Porthos. “No matter what you might think. Or how I might want it to be.”

A fifth voice joined the conversation then. “I wasn’t aware I’d put you all down for _have a nice chat_ on the duty roster,” Treville called down. His words were equal parts scorn and fondness.

The four of them shared a startled look, then Porthos and d’Artagnan burst out laughing. Aramis grinned and Athos smiled.

“Glad we all see the _humor_ in this,” Porthos chuckled, which earned a round of groans.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, as they all swung their legs out from under the bench. “Enlighten my poor farmboy mind. You said that the term for an imbalance in the humors is _dyscrasia_ , yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Is there a term for a balance of them? When all is well, I mean?”

“Mm, yes, it’s _eucrasia_. Perfect wellness.”                                        

“ _Eucrasia_ ,” d’Artagnan repeated, thoughtfully, and Porthos smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little stunned that this is already over. I tried to budget myself when it came to posting the chapters, but did not do a very good job of it! Oh well. In any case. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to all who read, and left comments and kudos. Although I'm good at making the boys express their feelings, I'm not always good at expressing my own, so I hope I still managed to convey to you all (especially my loyal, every-chapter reviewers  <3) how much I appreciate your support and your lovely comments. _The Weight of Your Coffin_ / _Dyscrasia_ has been a labor of love, maybe not as long as a lot of the fics out there but certainly longer than anything I've personally ever attempted. Once again, thank you for sharing in it with me!  
>  On a different note, I want to take just a moment to speak to the running theme of mental illness in this fic. Obviously the characters were all working with a 17th century understanding of MI, but we reading it are all working with a modern understanding. As such I hope I haven’t ended up portraying the dreaded friendship-and-optimism-cure-MI scenario. As somebody battling chronic insomnia and depression, I don’t ever want to trivialize it.  
> That said, it was my conception while writing this that d’Artagnan is suffering from stress response syndrome, aka adjustment disorder or situational depression. For those of you not familiar, as the names would suggest, this occurs after a highly stressful life event (in this case, Aramis’ “death” and subsequent return). It is basically a reaction to this event that is abnormally severe and can impact everyday life. It shares many symptoms with major depression, as well as anxiety. That said, it is shorter lived and actually does tend to resolve itself after a few months. In my mind it’s a natural progression for d’Artagnan to be improving the way he is.  
> Porthos is a trickier case. In my mind I was not holding any specific condition besides insomnia (although I don’t think you’d be wrong to think of him as depressed as well), but for him it has also taken on a life of its own and isn’t going to resolve just because he’s worked things out with Aramis. Things are looking up a bit but he isn’t cured-- though it must help that he has his best friend back to lean on.  
> I suppose I also wanted to end things on a positive note just for my sake too, though. Try to feed some of that optimism to myself, you know :)


End file.
